| O sacred head, surrounded
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| by crown of piercing thorn!
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| O bleeding head, so wounded,
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| so shamed and put to scorn!
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| Death’s pallid hue comes o’er thee,
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| the glow of life decays;
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| yet angel-hosts adore thee,
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| and tremble as they gaze.
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| Thy comeliness and vigour
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| is withered up and gone,
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| and in thy wasted figure
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| I see death drawing on.
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| O agony and dying!
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| O love to sinners free!
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| Jesu, all grace supplying,
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| turn thou thy face on me.
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| In this thy bitter passion,
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| good Shepherd, think of me with thy most sweet compassion,
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| unworthy though I be:
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| beneath thy Cross abiding
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| for ever would I rest,
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| in thy dear love confiding,
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| and with thy presence blest. |