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.

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,

and grant to me thy grace.

What language shall I borrow

to thank thee, dearest Friend,

for this, thy dying sorrow,

thy pity without end?

Oh, make me thine forever,

and should I fainting be,

Lord, let me never, never

outlive my love to thee.

Be near when I am dying,

oh, show thy cross to me,

and for my rescue, flying,

come, Lord, and set me free

These eyes, new faith receiving,

from Jesus shall not move,

for one who dies believing

dies safely, through thy love.