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Poem by Henry Francis Lyte


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When at Thy footstool, Lord, I bend,
And plead with Thee for mercy there,
Think of the sinners 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.



Henry Francis Lyte


Henry Francis Lyte's other poems:
  1. Far from My Heavenly Home
  2. God of Mercy, God of Grace
  3. Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven
  4. Declining Days
  5. Abide with Me!


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