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7.6.7.6.D

1
O sacred head! sore wounded,
With grief and shame bowed down,
How scornfully surrounded
With thorns, Thine only crown!
How pale art Thou with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn!

2
Thy grief and bitter passion
Were 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 favour,
Vouchsafe to me Thy grace.

3
What language shall I borrow
To thank Thee, dearest Friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine for ever;
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love to Thee!

4
Be near me when I’m dying;
O show Thy cross to me;
Thy death, my hope supplying,
From death shall set me free.
These eyes, new faith receiving,
From Jesus shall not move;
For he who dies believing
Dies safely through Thy love.