O Sacred Head, Now Wounded
Latin, 12th century.
O sacred Head now wounded, with grief and shame weighed 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 Thou My Lord hast 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.
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.