O Sacred Head Once Wounded,
With Grief And Pain Weighed Down ,
How Scornfully Surrounded
With Thorns, Thine Only Crown !
How Art Thou Pale With Anguish,
With Sore Abuse And Scorn !
How Does That Visage Languish,
Which Once Was Bright As Morn.

O Sacred Head, What Glory,
What Bliss Till Now Was Thine !
Yet, Though Despised And Gory,
I Joy To Call Thee Mine:
Thy Grief And Thy Compassion
Were All For Sinners’ Gain;
Mine, Mine Was The Transgression,
But Thine The Deadly Pain.

What Language Shall I Borrow,
To Praise Thee, Heavenly Friend,
For This Thy Dying Sorrow,
Thy Pity Without End ?
Lord, Make Me Thine For Ever,
Nor Let Me Faithless Prove;
Oh, Let Me Never, Never
Abuse Such Dying Love !