O Sacred Head, Sore Wounded

O sacred head, sore wounded, defiled and put to scorn; O kingly head, surrounded with mocking crown of thorn:  what sorrow mars thy grandeur? Can death thy bloom deflower? O countenance whose splendor the hosts of heaven adore!

Thy beauty, long-desired, hath vanished from our sight; thy power is all expired , and quenched the light of light. Ah me! for whom thou diest, hide not so far thy grace:  show me, O Love most highest, the brightness of thy face.

In thy most bitter passion my heart to share doth cry, with thee for my salvation upon the cross to die.  Ah, keep my heart thus moved to stand thy cross beneath, to mourn thee, well-beloved, yet thank thee for thy death.

I stand next to my husband amid the wooden pews, our voices joining the saints to declare these words written in the 11th century. And in timeless words, the Spirit breathes me undone. 
We’re waiting in expectation here for resurrection, preparing for the Easter celebration tomorrow.  And I’m thinking of you, how much I want to share this song with you to ponder together: Can death thy bloom deflower? Happy Saturday friends.