O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed
down,
Now scornfully surrounded with thorns, Thine only
crown;
O sacred Head, what glory, what bliss till now was Thine!
Yet, though despised and gory, I joy to call Thee mine.
Men mock and taunt and jeer Thee, Thou noble countenance,
Though mighty worlds shall fear Thee and flee before Thy glance.
How art Thou pale with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn!
How does Thy visage languish that 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.
My Saviour, be Thou near me when death is at my door;
Then
let Thy presence cheer me, forsake me nevermore!
When soul
and body languish, oh, leave me not alone,
But take away mine
anguish by virtue of Thine own!
