# 156 O Sacred Head Now Wounded
1. 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 Thee mine.
2. What Thou, my Lord, has 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 favour, 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 to Thee.