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 language shall I borrow
to thank thee, dearest Friend,
for this, thy dying sorrow,thy pity without end?

What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul?
What wondrous love is this, O my soul?
What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss
to bear the dreadful curse for my soul, for my soul,
to bear the dreadful curse for my soul?

Oh, make me thine forever,
and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
outlive my love to thee.