O sacred Head, sore 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 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 shown Thy cross to me;
and, for my succour flying,
come, Lord, to set me free;
these eyes, new faith receiving,
from Thee shall never move;
for he who dies believing
dies safely through Thy love.