O Sacred Head, Now Wounded



1 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 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.



3 Lord, be my consolation;

shield me when I must die;

remind me of thy passion

when my last hour draws nigh.

These eyes, new faith receiving,

from thee shall never move;

for they who die believing

die safely in thy love.

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