|
O sacred Head, now wounded, |
|
With grief and shame weighed down, |
|
Now scornfully surrounded |
|
With thorns, Thine only crown |
|
How pale thou art with anguish, |
|
with sore abuse and scorn! |
|
How doth Thy visage languish |
|
which once was bright as morn! |
|
What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered, |
|
T'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, |
|
Vouchsafe 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. |
