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.