O sacred Head, now wounded
With grief and shame weighed 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 The mine
What language shall I borrow
To thank Thee dearest Friend
For this, Thy dying sorrow
Thy pity without end
Oh make me thine forever
And should I fainting be
Lord, never let me ever
Outlive my love for Thee
O sacred Head, what glory
What bliss till now was Thine
Yet though despised and gory
I joy to call The mine