O Sacred Head, Now Wounded

 

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 till now was Thine!

Yet, though despised and gory

I joy to call Thee mine

 

O noblest Brow and dearest

In other days the world

All feared when Thou appearedst

What shame on Thee is hurled

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 trangression

But Thine the deadly pain

Lo, here I fail, my Saviour!

Tis I deserve Thy place

Look on me with Thy favor

Vouch-safe to me Thy grace

 

What language shall I borrow

To thank Thee, dearest Friend

For this Thy dying sorrow

They pity without end?

O make me Thine forever

And should I fainting be

Lord, let me never, never

Outlive my love to Thee

 

Bernard of Clairvaus, 1130 A.D.