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 ’til 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?
O make me thine for ever
And should I fainting be Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love to thee

Be near when I am dying
O show Thy cross to me
And for my succor flying
Come, Lord, to set me free
These eyes new faith receiving
From Jesus shall not move
For he who dies believing
Dies safely, through thy love

Paul Gerhardt, Public Domain