O sacred Head, now wounded With grief and shame weighed down Now scornfully surrounded With thorns, Thine only crown How pale thou art with anguish With sore abuse and scorn How does that visage languish Which once was bright as morn What thou my Lord has suffered Was all for sinner's gain Mine, mine was the transgression But thine the cruel pain Lo, here I fall my Saviour Turn not from me thy face But look on me with favour 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 for thee Be near me Lord when dying O show thy cross to me And my last need supplying Come Lord and set me free