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156 – O Sacred Head Now Wounded

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 thou, my Lord, has suffered

was all for sinners’ gain;

mine, mine was the transgression,

but thine the deadly pain.

Lo, here I fall, my Savior!

‘Tis I deserve thy place;

look on me with thy favor,

vouchsafe to me thy grace.

3

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.