O Sacred Head

O sacred head, now wounded,
With grief and shame weighed down;
Now 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!

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.