O Sacred Head Now Wounded, With Grief And Shame Weighed Down.
Now Scornfully Surrounded, With Thorns Thine Only Crown.
How Art Thou Pale With Anguish, With Sore Abuse And Scorn
How Dost That Visage Languish Which Once Was Bright As Morn.
What Language Shall I Borrow To Thank
Thee Dearest Friend For This Thy Dying Sorrow, Thy Pity Without End?
Or, Make Me Thine Forever, And Should I Fainting Be
Lord Let Me Never, Never Outlive My Love To Thee.