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.