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.
What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered,
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,
Vouch-safe 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,
Out-live my love for Thee.
Ascribed to Bernard of Clairvaux (1091-1153)
And when they came to the place called The Skull, there they crucified Him and the criminals, one on the right and the other on the left.
The Gospel of Luke, chapter 23, verse 33
