O Sacred Head, Now Wounded (Hassler)

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 till now was thine!
Yet, though despised and gory
I joy to call thee mine

How pale thou art with anguish
With sore abuse and scorn
How does thy face now languish
Which once was bright as morn!
Thy grief and bitter passion
Were all for sinners' gain
Mine, mine was the transgression
But thine the deadly pain

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

Lord, be my consolation
Shield me when I must die
Remind me of thy passion
When my last hour draws nigh
These eyes, new faith receiving
From thee shall never move
For all who die believing
Die safely in thy love