O Sacred Head Now Wounded

O sacred head, now wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down,
now scornfully surrounded
with thorns, thine only crown.
How pale art thou with anguish,
with sore abuse and scorn!
O how your face bears sorrow
which once was bright as morn!
Men mock and taunt and jeer Thee,
Thou noble countenance,
Though mighty worlds shall fear Thee
And flee before Thy glance.
Grim Death, with cruel rigor,
Hath robbed Thee of Thy life;
Thus Thou has lost Thy vigor,
Thy strength, in this sad strife.
You bled by our hands
You bled by our hands
You bled by our hands
You bled
My burdens You have carried, my sins you have borne,
For it was my transgression which brought this worldly scorn.
I cast me down before Thee, wrath my rightful lot;
But You have sweet mercy, Redeemer by the cross.
You bled by our hands
You bled by our hands
You bled by our hands
You bled
You bled by our hands
You bled by our hands
You bled by our hands
You bled for me, for you, for us For me, for you, for us For me, for you, for us