• AUTHOR: // CATEGORY: Theology

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    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.


    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 Savior! ’Tis I deserve Thy place;

    Look on me with Thy favor, vouchsafe 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.

    -Bernard of Clairvaux