1 

O Head once full of bruises,

   So full of pain and scorn,

Mid other sore abuses,

   Mocked with a crown of thorn:

O Head e'en now surrounded

   With brightest majesty,

In death once bowed and wounded

   On the accurs�d tree:

 2 

Thou Countenance transcendent!

   Thou life-creating Sun!

To worlds on Thee dependent —

   Yet bruised and spit upon:

O Lord, what Thee tormented

   Was our sins' heavy load,

We had the debt augmented

   Which Thou didst pay in blood.

 3 

We give Thee thanks unfeigned,

   O Savior, Friend in need,

For what Thy soul sustained

   When Thou for us didst bleed.

Grant us to lean unshaken

   Upon Thy faithfulness,

Until, to glory taken,

   We see Thee face to face.