When at Thy footstool, Lord, I bend,
And plead with Thee for mercy there,
Think of the sinner’s dying friend,
And for His sake receive my prayer.

O think not of my shame and guilt,
My thousand stains of deepest dye;
Think of the blood which Jesus spilt,
And let that blood my pardon buy.

Think, Lord, how I am still Thine own,
The trembling creature of Thy hand;
Think how my heart to sin is prone,
And what temptations round me stand.

O think how blind and weak am I,
How strong and wily are my foes:
They wrestled with Thy hosts on high;
And can a worm their might oppose?

O think upon Thy holy Word,
And every plighted promise there;
How prayer should evermore be heard,
And how Thy glory is to spare.

O think not of my doubts and fears,
My strivings with Thy grace divine;
Think upon Jesus’ woes and tears,
And let His merits stand for mine.

Thine eyes, Thine ear, they are not dull;
Thine arm can never shortened be;
Behold me here—my heart is full—
Behold, and spare, and succor me.

No claim, no merits, Lord, I plead;
I come a humbled, helpless slave:
But ah! the more my guilty need,
The more Thy glory, Lord, to save.