O Sacred Head, Now Wounded

O sacred Head, now wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down;
Now scornfully surrounded
with thorns, Thine only crown;
How pale art Thou with anguish,
with sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish
which once was bright as morn!

O Lord of life and glory,
what bliss till now was Thine!
I read the wondrous story,
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, Heav'nly Friend,
for this Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
Lord, make me Thine forever;
Nor let me faithless prove;
O, let me never, never
abuse such dying love!

Be near me, Lord, when dying,
O, show Thyself to me;
And for my succour flying,
come, Lord, to set me free:
These eyes new faith receiving,
from Jesus shall not move,
for he who dies believing
dies safely through Thy love.