O 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, still now, was thine!
Yet, though despised and gory, my joy to call thee mine!
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 favour, vouchsafe to me thy grace!
What languish shall I borrow to thank thee, dearest friend?
For this thy dying scar, O thy pity without end, O make me thine forever,
and should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to thee!