O sac­red head, sur­round­ed
By crown of pierc­ing thorn!
O bleed­ing head, so wound­ed,
So shamed and put to scorn!
Death’s pal­lid hue comes o’er Thee,
The glow of life de­cays;
Yet an­gel hosts adore Thee,
And trem­ble as they gaze.

I see Thy strength and vi­gor
All fad­ing in the strife,
And death with cru­el rigor
Bereaving Thee of life;
O ago­ny and dy­ing!
O love to sin­ners free!
Jesu, all grace sup­ply­ing,
O turn Thy face on me.

In this Thy bit­ter pass­ion,
Good Shep­herd, think of me
With Thy most sweet com­pass­ion,
Unworthy though I be:
Beneath Thy cross abid­ing
For ev­er would I rest,
In Thy dear love con­fid­ing,
And with Thy pre­sence blest.