When at Thy footstool, Lord, I bend,
And plead with Thee for mercy there,
O think Thou of the sinner's Friend,
And for His sake receive my prayer!
O think not of my shame and guilt,
My tousand 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;
How should 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 salve:
But, ah! the more my guilty need,
The more Thy glory, Lord, to save.