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 doth Thy visage languish
That once was bright as morn
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, let me never, never,
Outlive my love for Thee