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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.