Sunday Songs

O Sacred Head, Now Wounded

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.

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 Savior! 
Tis I deserve thy place;
Look on me with thy favor,
Vouchsafe me to thy grace.

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.

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