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.
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.
We give Thee thanks unfeignèd,
O Saviour, Friend in need,
For what Thy soul sustainèd
When Thou for us didst bleed.
Grant us to lean unshaken
Upon Thy faithfulness,
Until, to glory taken,
We see Thee face to face.