O Head once full of bruises

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 accursed 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 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.