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O sacred head, now wounded, with grief and
shame weighed down, now scornfully

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surrounded, with thorns thine only crown,
O sacred head, what glory!

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What bliss, still now, was thine!

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Yet, though despised and gory,
my joy to call thee mine!

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What thou, my Lord, hast suffered,
was all for sinners' gain!

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Mine, mine, was the transgression,
but thine the deadly pain!

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Lo, here I fall, my Saviour, tis I deserve
thy place!

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Look on me with thy favour, vouchsafe to
me thy grace!

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What languish shall I borrow to thank
thee, dearest friend?

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For this thy dying scar, O thy pity
without end, O make me thine forever,

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and should I fainting be, Lord,
let me never, never outlive my love to thee!