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.