1 O sacred head! now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down,

Now scornfully surrounded

With thorns, thy 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 O noblest brow, and dearest!

In other days the world

All feared, when thou appeared’st,

What shame on thee is hurled!

How art thou pale with anguish,

With sore abuse and scorn;

How does that visage languish,

Which once was bright as morn.

3 The blushes late residing

Upon that holy cheek,

The roses once abiding

Upon those lips so meek,

Alas! they have departed;

Wan Death has rifled all!

For weak and broken-hearted,

I see thy body fall.

4 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.

5 Receive me, my Redeemer,

My Shepherd, make me thine;

Of every good the fountain,

Thou art the spring of mine.

Thy lips with love distilling,

And milk of truth sincere,

With heaven’s