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    O Sacred Head, Now Wounded
    Bernard of Clairvaux

    O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down,
    Now scornfully surrounded with thorns Your only crown,
    O sacred Head, no glory now from Your face does shine;
    Yet, though despised and gory, I joy to call You mine.

    Men mock and taunt and jeer You. They smite Your countenance.
    Though mighty worlds shall fear You, and flee before Your glance.
    How pale You are with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn!
    Your eyes with pain now languish that once were bright as morn!

    My burden in Your passion, Lord, You have borne for me,
    For it was my transgression, my shame, on Calvary.

    I cast me down before you; wrath is my rightful lot.
    Have mercy, I implore You; Redeemer, spurn me not!

    What language shall I borrow to thank You, dearest Friend,

    For this, Your dying sorrow, Your pity without end?
    Oh, make me Yours forever, and keep me strong and true;
    Lord, let me never, never outlive my love for You.