O sacred Head now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down   Now scornfully surrounded, with thorns Thine only crown   How art Thou pale with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn   How dost that visage languish which once was bright as morn      What language shall I borrow to thank Thee dearest friend   For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?   Or, make me Thine forever, and should I fainting be   Lord let me never, never outlive my love to Thee