Behold the pierced one—crucified for our sake—grim death, with cruel rigor, has robbed him of his life.  Today we mourn, but tomorrow (and for all time) he will triumph over death’s cruelty and restore life to all. 

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.

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.

Now from thy cheeks has vanished
Their color once so fair;
From thy red lips is banished
The splendor that was there.
Grim death, with cruel rigor,
Hath robbed thee of thy life;
Thus thou hast lost thy vigor,
Thy strength in this sad strife.