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 accursèd 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.