O sacred head, now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down,

So scornfully surrounded,

With thorns thine only crown;

How art thou pale with anguish,

With sore abuse and scorn!

How do those features languish

Which once were fair as morn!

What language shall I borrow

To thank thee, dearest friend,

For this thy dying sorrow,

This love that knew no end!

O, make me thine forever!

And should I fainting be,

Lord, let me never, never,

Outlive my love to thee!