When at Thy footstool, Lord, I bend, <br />And plead with Thee for mercy there, <br />Think of the sinner’s dying Friend, <br />And for His sake receive my prayer. <br /> <br />O think not of my shame and guilt, <br />My thousand stains of deepest dye; <br />Think of the blood which Jesus spilt, <br />And let that blood my pardon buy. <br /> <br />Think, Lord, how I am still Thine own, <br />The trembling creature of Thy hand; <br />Think how my heart to sin is prone, <br />And what temptations round me stand. <br /> <br />O think upon Thy holy Word, <br />And every plighted promise there; <br />How prayer should evermore be heard, <br />And how Thy glory is to spare. <br /> <br />O think not of my doubts and fears, <br />My strivings with Thy grace divine; <br />Think upon Jesus’ woes and tears, <br />And let His merits stand for mine. <br /> <br />Thine eyes, Thine ear, they are not dull; <br />Thine arm can never shortened be; <br />Behold me here; my heart is full; <br />Behold, and spare, and succor me.<br /><br />Henry Francis Lyte<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-at-thy-footstool-lord-i-bend/