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O Sacred HeadBy Amy GrantO sacred head now woundedWith grief and shame way down,Now scornfully surroundedWith thorns thine only crown,How art thou pale with anguish,With sore abuse and scorn.How does that visage languish,Which once was bright as morn.What language shall I borrowTo thank thee dearest man?For this, thy dying sorrow,Thy pity without end.O make me thine forever,And should I fainting be,Lord, let me never, everOutlive my love to thee.
O Sacred HeadBy Amy GrantO sacred head now woundedWith grief and shame way down,Now scornfully surroundedWith thorns thine only crown,How art thou pale with anguish,With sore abuse and scorn.How does that visage languish,Which once was bright as morn.What language shall I borrowTo thank thee dearest man?For this, thy dying sorrow,Thy pity without end.O make me thine forever,And should I fainting be,Lord, let me never, everOutlive my love to thee.