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 doth Thy visage languish

Which once was bright as morn!


What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered,

T'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.


What language shall I borrow

To thank Thee, dearest friend,

For this Thy dying sorrow,

Thy pity without end?

O make me Thine forever,

And should I fainting be,

Lord, let me never, never

Outlive my love for Thee.


Text attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153)