Untitled Sermon

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, and grant to me thy grace.

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

for this, thy dying sorrow, thy pity without end?

Oh, make me thine forever, and should I fainting be,

Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to thee.