O Sacred Head, Now Wounded

O sacred head, now wounded,

with grief and shame bowed down,

now scornfully surrounded

with thorns, thy only crown:

how art thou pale with anguish,

with sore abuse and scorn!

How does 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?

Let me be thine forever.

And, should I fainting be,

oh, let me never, never,

outlive my love to thee.