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;
    O sacred Head, what glory,
    What bliss till now was thine!
    Yet, though despised and gory,
    I joy to call thee mine.

  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 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 for ever;
    And should I fainting be,
    Lord, let me never, never
    Outlive my love to thee.
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