O Sacred Head Now Wounded     O Sacred Head, now wounded, With grief and shame weighed down, Now scornfully surrounded with thorns, Thine only crown; How pale Thou art 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. Lo, here I fall, my Savior! 'Tis I deserve Thy place; Look on me with Thy favor, Vouchsafe to me Thy grace. Men mock and taunt and jeer Thee, Thou noble countenance, Though mighty worlds shall fear Thee And flee before Thy glance. How art thou pale with anguish, With sore abuse and scorn! How doth Thy visage languish That once was bright as morn!