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 sin's 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.