1 Lord, at thy feet in dust I lie,
And knock at mercy's door;
With humble heart and weeping eye,
Thy favor I implore.

2 On me, O Lord, do thou display
Thy rich, forgiving love;
O take my heinous guilt away,
This heavy load remove.

3 Without thy grace, I sink oppress'd
Down to the gates of hell;
O give my troubled spirit rest,
And all my fears dispel.

4 'Tis mercy, mercy, I implore,
O may thy bowels move:
Thy grace is an exhaustless store,
And thou thyself art love.

5 Should I at last in heaven appear,
To join thy saints above;
I'll shout that mercy brought me there,
And sing thy bleeding love.