My bu­si­ness lies at wis­dom’s gate
Where needy sin­ners come,
And here I sue, and here I wait
For mer­cy’s fall­ing crumbs.

My rags and wounds my wants pro­claim,
And help from Him im­plore;
The wounds do wit­ness I am lame,
The rags that I am poor.

My Lord, I hear, the hun­gry feeds,
And cheer­eth souls dis­tressed;
He loves to bind up brok­en reeds,
And heal a bleed­ing breast.

His name is Je­sus, full of grace,
Which draws me to His door;
And will not Je­sus show His face,
And bring His Gos­pel store?

Supplies of ev­ery grace I want,
And each day want sup­ply;
And if no grace the Lord will grant,
I must lay down and die.

But oh! my Lord, such news shall ne’er
Be told in Zi­on’s street,
That some poor soul fell in des­pair,
And died at Je­sus’ feet.