Henry Francis Lyte

(1 June 1793 - 20 November 1847 / Scotland)

When At Thy Footstool, Lord, I Bend - Poem by Henry Francis Lyte

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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Read poems about / on: friend, heart, fear



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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