I stand at mer­cy’s door,
O Lord, look on me now,
A beg­gar knocks, ex­ceed­ing poor,
And none can help but Thou.

Through sin, born dark I was,
Nor car­èd for the light,
All know­ledge of Thy truth and grace,
Was ban­ished from my sight.

Exceeding lame be­side,
A crip­ple from my birth,
And need a crutch, as well a guide,
To help my an­kles forth.

A rag­ged soul I am,
My breast and shoul­ders bare,
And no­thing left to hide my shame,
But fig leaves here and there.

With sore dis­ease I smart,
From pain am sel­dom free,
It is the ev­il in my heart,
My fa­ther gave it me.

Lord, I have told my case,
Well known to Thee be­fore,
Let Je­sus show His love­ly face,
And heal up ev­ery sore.

Mine eyes with salve an­oint,
That I may see Thy light;
And strength­en ev­ery tot­ter­ing joint,
That I may walk up­right.

My nak­ed soul ar­ray
In Thy own right­eous­ness;
And let Thy pre­cious blood con­vey
The pledge of heav’n­ly peace.

My evil, Thou dost know,
Torments my bosom much,
But let the King of Israel show,
He cures it with a touch.

Some manna also bring
To feast my pilgrim days,
And Thou shalt hear a beggar sing,
And shout forth Je­sus’ praise.