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SS & S 126

O Sacred Head, Now Wounded
With grief and pain weighed down,
How scornfully surrounded
With thorns, Thine only crown!
How art Thou pale with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish,
Which once was bright as morn.

O sacred Head, what glory,
What bliss till now was Thine!
Yet, though despised and gory,
I joy to call thee mine:
Thy grief and Thy compassion
Were all for sinners’ gain;
Mine, mine was the transgression,
But Thine the deadly pain.

What language shall I borrow,
To praise Thee, heavenly Friend.
For this Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
Lord,  make me Thine for ever,
Nor let me faithless prove;
Oh, let me never, never
Abuse such dying love!