When At Thy Footstool Lord I Bend

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 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.