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 Thy 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 eye, Thine ear--they are not dull;
Thine arm can never shortened be:
Behold me here!--my heart is full----
Behold! and spare, and succour me.
No claim, no merits, Lord, I plead:
I come a humbled, helpless slave:
But, ah! the more my guilty need,
The more Thy O glory Lord, to save.