1 O sacred head, sore wounded, Defiled and put to scorn; O kingly head, surrounded With mocking crown of thorn: What sorrow mars Thy grandeur? Can death Thy bloom deflow’r? O countenance whose splendor The hosts of heav’en adore! 2 Thy beauty, long desired, Hath vanished from our sight; Thy pow’r is all expired, And quenched the light of light. Ah me! for whom Thou diest, Hide not so far Thy grace: Show me, O Love most highest, The brightness... Read more