1.O sacred Head, now wounded,with grief and shame weighed down,now scornfully suroundedwith thorns, thine only crown:how pale thou art with anguish,with sore abuse and scorn!How does that visage languishwhich once was bright as morn!2.What thou, my Lord, has sufferedwas 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.3.What language shall I borrowto 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, neveroutlive my love for thee.