1 O sacred head, now wounded,
With grief and shame weighed down,
So scornfully surrounded,
With thorns thine only crown;
How art thou pale with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn!
How do those features languish
Which once were fair as morn!

2 What language shall I borrow
To thank thee, dearest friend,
For this thy dying sorrow,
This love that knew no end!
O, make me thine forever!
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never,
Outlive my love to thee!