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 sinnersï?? gain;
Mine, mine was the transgression, but Thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Savior! ï??Tis I deserve Thy place;
Look on me with Thy favor, vouchsafe to me Thy grace.