Hymn Information
O Sacred Head, Now Wounded
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Notes
PASSION CHORALE. 7. 6. 7. 6. D.
Alternative Tune: MUNICH. 7. 6. 7. 6. D.
Harmonized by Johann Sebastian Bach, 1719 (1685-1750)
Tr. (into the German) by Paul Gerhardt, 1656
Tr. (from the German) by James W. Alexander, 1830 (1804-1859)
Text from Isaiah 50:6
Alternative Tune: MUNICH. 7. 6. 7. 6. D.
Harmonized by Johann Sebastian Bach, 1719 (1685-1750)
Tr. (into the German) by Paul Gerhardt, 1656
Tr. (from the German) by James W. Alexander, 1830 (1804-1859)
Text from Isaiah 50:6
Lyrics
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.
O noblest Brow and dearest,
In other days the world
All feared when Thou appearedst;
What shame on Thee is hurled!
How art Thou pale with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn;
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn!
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 Saviour!
'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
Outlive my love to Thee.
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.
O noblest Brow and dearest,
In other days the world
All feared when Thou appearedst;
What shame on Thee is hurled!
How art Thou pale with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn;
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn!
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 Saviour!
'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
Outlive my love to Thee.
Uploaded on October 7th, 2008 at 2:15am and has 331 views!
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