1. O sacred Head, now wounded, With grief and shame weighed down, Now scornfully surounded With thorns, thine only crown: O sacred head, what glory, What bliss till now was Thine! Yet, though despised and gorry, I joy to call Thee mine! 2. What thou, my Lord, has suffered Was all for sinners' gain; Mine, mine was the transgression, But thine the deadly pain. Lo, here I fall, my Savior! 'Tis I deserve thy place; Look on me with thy favor, Vouch safe to me thy grace. 3. 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 for thee.