Verse 1
O sacred Head, now wounded, With grief and shame weighed down; Now scornfully surrounded With thorns, thine only crown; O sacred Head, what glory, What bliss till now was thine! Yet, though despised and gory, I joy to call thee mine.
Verse 2
What thou, my Lord, hast suffered Was all for sinners' gain: Mine, mine was the transgression, But thine the deadly pain. Lo, here I fall, my Saviour! 'Tis I deserve thy place; Look on me with thy favour, Vouchsafe to me thy grace.
Verse 3
What language shall I borrow To thank thee, dearest Friend, For this thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end? O make me thine for ever; And should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never Outlive my love to thee.
Verse 4
Be near when I am dying, O show thy cross to me; And for my succour flying, Come, Lord, to set me free: These eyes, new faith receiving, From Jesus shall not move; For he who dies believing, Dies safely, through thy love.