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 tho' despised and gory,
I joy to call thee mine.

2 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.

3 The joy can ne'er be spoken,
Above all joys beside,
When in thy body broken,
I thus with safety hide;
My Lord of life! desiring
Thy glory now to see,
Beside thy cross expiring,
I'd breathe my soul to thee.

Paul Gerhardt, 1659.