156. O Sacred Head Now Wounded

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, though despised and gory, I joy to call Thee mine. 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. 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.