Good Friday

O Sacred Head now wounded
With grief and shame weighed down.
Now scornfully surrounded
With thorns Thine only crown.
How art Thou pale with anguish
With sore abuse and scorn.
How dost that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn.

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.

"O Sacred Head", Amy Grant