Verse 1

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!

Verse 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 Savior! 'Tis I deserve Thy place; Look on me with Thy favor, vouch-safe to me Thy grace.

Verse 3

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.