SACRED Head, now wounded,
-With grief and shame weighed down,

Now scornfully surrounded

With thorns, Thy only crown!

O Sacred Head, what glory,

What bliss, till now, was Thine!
Yet, though despised and gory,
I joy to call Thee mine.

2 How art Thou pale with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish,
Which once was bright as morn!
What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered,
Was all for sinners' gain;

Mine, mine was the transgression,
But Thine the deadly pain.

3 Lo, here I fall, my Saviour!
'Tis I deserve Thy place!
Look on me with Thy favor,
Vouchsafe to me Thy grace.
Receive me, my Redeemer;
My Shepherd, make me Thine!
Of every good the Fountain,
Thou art the Spring of mine!

2 The pow'rs of death have done their worst,
But Christ their legions hath dispersed;
Let shouts of holy joy outburst! Alleluia!
3 The three sad days are quickly sped,
He rises glorious from the dead;
All glory to our risen Head! Alleluia!
4 He closed the yawning gates of hell;
The bars from heav'n's high portals fell;
Let hymns of praise His triumph tell! Alleluia!
5 Lord! by the stripes which wounded Thee,
From death's dread sting Thy servants free,
That we may live, and sing to Thee, Alleluia!