O sa-cred Head, now wound-ed,
With grief and shame weighed down,
Now scorn-ful-ly sur-round-ed
With thorns, Thy on-ly crown,
O sa-cred Head, what glo-ry,
What bliss till now was Thine!
Yet, though des-pised and gor-y,
I joy to call Thee mine.
What Thou, my Lord, hast suf-fered
Was all for sin-ners' gain;
Mine, mine was the trans-gres-sion,
But Thine the dead-ly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Sav-ior!
'Tis I de-serve Thy place;
Look on me with Thy fav-or,
Vouch-safe to me Thy grace.
What lan-guage shall I bor-row
To thank Thee, dear-est friend,
For this Thy dy-ing sor-row,
Thy pit-y with-out end?
O make me Thine for-ev-er;
And, should I faint-ing be,
Lord, let me nev-er, nev-er
Out-live my love for Thee!