Verse > Anthologies > Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. > Poems of Places > Asia
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed.  Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII.  1876–79.
 
Syria: Calvary, the Mount
O Sacred Head! Now Wounded
Paul Gerhardt (1607–1676)
 
Translated by J. W. Alexander

O SACRED Head! now wounded,
  With grief and shame weighed down,
Now scornfully surrounded
  With thorns, thy only crown;
O sacred Head! what glory,        5
  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        10
All feared when thou appearedst:
  What shame on thee is hurled!
How art thou pale with anguish,
  With sore abuse and scorn;
How does that visage languish,        15
  Which once was bright as morn!
 
The blushes late residing
  Upon that holy cheek,
The roses once abiding
  Upon those lips so meek,        20
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,        25
  Was all for sinners’ gain:
Mine, mine, was the transgression,
  But thine the deadly pain.
Lo! here I fall, my Saviour:
  ’T is I deserve thy place;        30
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,        35
  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.        40
 
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,        45
  In agony opprest,
Then, then, will I enfold thee
  Within this arm and breast!
 
The joy can ne’er be spoken,
  Above all joys beside,        50
When in thy body broken
  I thus with safety hide.
My Lord of life, desiring
  Thy glory now to see,
Beside the cross expiring,        55
  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!        60
O, make me thine forever;
  And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
  Outlive my love to thee.
 
And when I am departing,        65
  O, 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,        70
Release me from mine anguish
  By thine own pain and woe!
 
Be near me when I ’m dying,
  O, show thy cross to me;
And for my succor flying,        75
  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.        80
 
 
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