LYRIC

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.

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