Not wor­thy, Lord, to ga­ther up the crumbs
With trem­bling hand that from Thy ta­ble fall,
A wea­ry, hea­vy la­den sin­ner comes
To plead Thy pro­mise and ob­ey Thy call.

I am not wor­thy to be thought Thy child,
Nor sit the last and low­est at Thy board;
Too long a wan­der­er and too oft be­guiled;
I on­ly ask one re­con­cil­ing word.

One word from Thee, my Lord, one smile, one look,
And I could face the cold, rough world again;
And with that trea­sure in my heart could brook
The wrath of de­vils and the scorn of men.

And is not mer­cy Thy pre­ro­ga­tive—
Free mer­cy, bound­less, fa­thom­less, di­vine?
Me, Lord, the chief of sin­ners, me for­give,
And Thine the great­er glo­ry, on­ly Thine.

I hear Thy voice; Thou bidd’st me come and rest;
I come, I kneel, I clasp Thy pierc­èd feet;
Thou bidd’st me take my place, a wel­come guest
Among Thy saints, and of Thy ban­quet eat.

My praise can on­ly breathe it­self in pray­er,
My pray­er can on­ly lose it­self in Thee;
Dwell Thou for­ev­er in my heart, and there,
Lord, let me sup with Thee; sup Thou with me.