Rebecca Stark is the author of The Good Portion: Godthe second title in The Good Portion series.

The Good Portion: God explores what Scripture teaches about God in hopes that readers will see his perfection, worth, magnificence, and beauty as they study his triune nature, infinite attributes, and wondrous works. 

                     

Main | Theological Term: Dyotheletism »
Sunday
Mar162025

Sunday Hymn: O Sacred Head Now Wounded

  

 

 

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.

O nob­lest brow, and dear­est!
In oth­er days the world
All feared, when Thou ap­peared’st,
What shame on Thee is hurled!
How art Thou pale with ang­uish,
With sore abuse and scorn;
How does that vi­sage lang­uish,
When once was bright as morn.

The blush­es late re­sid­ing
Upon that ho­ly cheek,
The ros­es once abid­ing
Upon those lips so meek,
Alas! they have de­part­ed;
Wan Death has ri­fled all!
For weak and brok­en heart­ed,
I see Thy bo­dy fall.

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,
Vouchsafe to me Thy grace.

Receive me, my Re­deem­er,
My Shep­herd, make me Thine;
Of eve­ry good the fount­ain,
Thou art the spring of mine.
Thy lips with love dis­till­ing,
And milk of truth sin­cere,
With Heav­en’s bliss are fill­ing
The soul that trem­bles here.

Beside Thee, Lord, I’ve tak­en
My place—for­bid me not!
Hence will I ne’er be shak­en,
Though Thou to death be brought,
If pain’s last pale­ness hold Thee,
In ago­ny op­pressed,
Then, then will I en­fold Thee
Within this arm and breast!

The joy can ne’er be spok­en,
Above all joys be­side;
When in Thy body brok­en
I thus with safe­ty hide.
My Lord of life, de­sir­ing
Thy glo­ry now to see,
Beside the cross ex­pir­ing,
I’d breathe my soul to Thee.

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.

And when I am de­part­ing,
Oh! part not Thou from me;
When mor­tal pangs are dart­ing,
Come, Lord, and set me free;
And when my heart must lang­uish
Amidst the fi­nal throe,
Release me from mine an­guish,
By Thine own pain and woe!

Be near me when I am dy­ing,
Oh! show Thy cross to me;
And for my suc­cor fly­ing,
Come, Lord, and set me free!
These eyes new faith re­ceiv­ing,
From Je­sus shall not move,
For he who dies be­liev­ing,
Dies safe­ly through Thy love.

At­trib­ut­ed to Ber­nard of Clair­vaux

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