Anon.; P. Gerhardt and J. Alexander, Trs.

O SACRED Head, once wounded,

With grief and shame bowed 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.


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 Saviour!

’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.


Be near me when I’m dying,

O show Thy cross to me;

And to my succour flying

Come, Lord, and set me free.

These eyes, new faith receiving,

From Jesus shall not move;

For he, who dies believing,

Dies safely through Thy love.


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