1 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.

2 Oh, 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.

3 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.

4 Oh, think upon Thy holy Word,
And every plighted promise there!
How prayer should evermore be heard,
And how Thy glory is to spare.

5 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.

6 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 succor me.