O Sacred Head

O sacred Head, now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down,

Now scornfully surrounded

With thorns, Thine only crown;

How art Thou pale with anguish,

With sore abuse and scorn;

How doth that visage languish,

Which once was bright as morn.

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.