O sacred head now wounded

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 Savior! 'Tis I deserve Thy place; look on me with Thy favor, 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 forever! And should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never outlive my love for Thee.

Verse 4

Be near when I am dying, O show Thy cross to me! And, for my succor flying, come, Lord, to set me free: these eyes, new faith receiving, from Thee shall never move; for he who dies believing dies safely in Thy love.