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?
Or, make me Thine forever, and should I fainting be
Lord let me never, never outlive my love to Thee.

Someone’s got to keep it on going
Just as long as there’re folks who haven’t heard.
So you can count on me ’cause
He’s showin’
That there’re so many ways to spread His Word.
(Repeat three times)