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
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 me to thy grace
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
