O sacred head now wounded
With grief and shame way down
Now scornfully surrounded
With thorns thine only crown
How art thou pale with anguish
With sore abuse and scorn.
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn.
What language shall I borrow
To thank thee dearest man?
For thisthy dying sorrow
Thy pity without end.
O make me thine forever
And should I fainting be
Lordlet me neverever
Outlive my love to thee.

- Back to the Songs of the Album My Father Eyes

- Back to the Amy Grant's Albums