O Sacred Head, Now Wounded

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 1. O sacred head, now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down,

Now scornfully surrounded

With thorns, thine only crown.

How pale thou art with anguish,

With sore abuse and scorn;

How does that visage languish

Which once was bright as morn.

2. What language shall I borrow

To thank thee, dearest Friend,

For this, thy dying sorrow,

Thy pity without end?

O make me thine forever!

And should I fainting be,

Lord, let me never, never,

Outlive my love for thee.



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