O Sacred Head! Sore Wounded

1. O sacred Head, sore wounded, with grief and shame bowed down, How scornfully surrounded with thorns, Thine only crown; How pale art Thou with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn! How does that visage languish, which once was bright as morn! 2. Thy grief and bitter passion were 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. 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. 4. Be near me Lord when dying; O show Thy cross to me; Thy death my hope supplying, from death shall set me free. These eyes, new faith receiving, From Jesus shall not move; For he who dies believing, dies safely through Thy love.