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 'til now was Thine;
Yet though despised and gory,
I joy to call Thee mine!

What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered
Was all for sinners' gain;
'Twas mine the dread transgression,
But Thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Saviour,
'Tis I deserve Thy place;
Oh, look on me with favour;
Vouchsafe to me Thy grace.


Be near when I am dying,
Oh, show Thy cross to me;
And for my succor flying,
Come, Lord, to set me free:
These eyes new faith receiving.
From Thee shall not remove,
For he who dies believing
Dies safely through Thy love.

What language shall I borrow
To thank Thee, dearest Friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
Oh, make me Thine forever;
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love to Thee.

Attributed to ~
Bernard of Clairvaux (1091-1153)

English Translation by ~
James W. Alexander (1804-1859)