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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.