1
O sa-cred Head, now wound-ed,
With grief and shame weighed down.
Now scorn-ful-ly sur-round-ed
With thorns, Thine on-ly crown;
O sa-cred Head, what glo-ry,
What bliss till now was Thine!
Yet, though de-spised and go-ry,
I joy to call Thee mine.
2
O no-blest Brow and dear-est,
In oth-er days the world
All feared when Thou ap-pear-edst;
What shame on Thee is hurled!
How art Thou pale with an-guish,
With sore a-buse and scorn;
How does that vis-age lan-guish
Which once was bright as morn!
3
What Thou, my Lord, hast suf-fered
Was all for sin-ners' gain.
Mine, mine was the trans-gres-sion,
But Thine the dead-ly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Sav-iour!
"Tis I de-serve Thy place;
Look on me with Thy fa-vor,
Vouch-safe to me Thy grace.
O Sacred Head, Now Wounded