O SACRED HEAD SORE WOUNDED

[1]
O sacred head sore wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down;
O kingly head surrounded
with thorns thine only crown.
Death's pallor now comes o'er thee,
the glow of life decays;
yet hosts of heaven adore thee
and tremble as they gaze.

[2]
What language shall I borrow
to praise thee, heavenly friend,
for this thy dying sorrow,
thy pity without end?
O agony and dying!
O love to sinners free!
Jesus, all grace supplying,
turn thou thy face on me.

[3]
In this thy bitter Passion,
good Shepherd, think of me
with thy most sweet compassion,
unworthy though I be:
beneath thy cross abiding
for ever would I rest,
in thy dear love confiding,
and with thy presence blest.

[4]
Be thou my consolation,
my shield, when I must die;
remind me of thy passion
when my last hour draws nigh.
Mine eyes shall then behold thee,
upon thy cross shall dwell,
my heart by faith enfold thee;
who dieth thus, dies well.