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 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.