O sacred Head, now wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down,
now scornfully surounded
with thorns, thine only crown:
O sacred head what glory,
what bliss til now was thine
Yet though despised and gory
I joy to call thee mine.

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,
vouch safe to me thy grace.

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 to Thee.