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 'til 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 to me 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