130 ~ 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 Saviour! '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 to Thee.