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.
2
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.
3
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.
4
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.