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.