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 Saviour!
'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?
Oh, make me Thine forever;
and should I fainting be,
Lord let me never, never
Outlive my love to Thee!
Be near me when I'm dying;
Oh, show Thy Cross to me!
And for my succor flying;
Come, Lord, and set me free!
These eyes, new faith receiving,
from Jesus shall not move;
for he who dies believing,
dies safely, through thy love.
Bernard of Clairvaux (1091-1153)
English Translation: James Waddell Alexander
(1859-1904)
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