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.

Oh think not of my shame and guilt,

My thousand stains of deepest dye;

Think of the blood which Jesus spilt

My pardon and my life to 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.

Oh think upon Thy holy word,

And every plighted promise there;

How pray’r should evermore be heard,

And how Thy glory is to spare.

Oh 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.