O sacred head, sore wounded, defiled and put to scorn;
O kingly head, surrounded with mocking crown of thorn:
What sorrow mars thy grandeur? Can death thy bloom deflower?
O countenance whose splendor the hosts of heaven adore!
O bleeding back, sore lashed, upon thy burden foretold;
The world’s sin fix’t unto thee which was for silver sold!
What pain can yet surpass that thy people slay their God?
Still yet thy cross forgives them rather than strike with rod!
O feet that walked on water, anointed now by nail;
Their precious flowing blood doth make all death to fail:
Is any of us worthy to follow in thy stead?
Help each to tread the blessed path where thy footsteps do lead!
O hands that heal all nations, impaled unto a tree;
That thy reigning pure virtue might flow full visibly:
Have these that made creation deigned this that they might save?
May all blessed to behold them praise thee beyond the grave!
O pierced side of Jesus, all love receives the sword;
Communion and Baptism flows water and the blood:
Doth gall and vinegar tasted from loving deter thee?
The gift of sinner’s redemption doth ever runneth free!
In thy most bitter passion my heart to share doth cry,
With thee for my salvation upon the cross to die.
Ah, keep my heart thus moved to stand thy cross beneath.
To mourn thee, well beloved, yet thank thee for thy death.
My days are few, O fail not, with thine immortal power,
To hold me that I quail not in death’s most fearful hour;
That I might fight befriended, and see in my last strife
To me thine arms extended upon the cross of life.
O seven wounds of passion, by thee it is we heal;
To trade our warring nature for the true love thou feel.
No heart there is among us, who sees thy scars risen;
Who cries not, “My Lord and my God! Alleluia!” without end.