Hymn 121 - O Sacred Head, Now Wounded

O sacred Head, now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down;

Now scornfully surrounded,

With thorns Thine only crown:

How art Thou pale with anguish,

With sore abuse and scorn;

How does that visage languish

Which once was bright as morn!

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 Saviour! ’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.