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,

Assist me with 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.