I dare not raise my guilty eye
The gaze of man to meet,
A helpless sentenced wretch I lie,
Lord Jesus! at Thy feet.
Too justly scorned by all beside,
I trembling come to Thee;
If Thou for chief of sinners died,
Is there not hope for me?
The dying thief in torments hung
While sinners scoffed around;
With feeble breath and faltering tongue
He mercy sought—and found.
There flowed before his eyesight dim
The blood which made him free;
If Jesus heard and pitied him
Is there not hope for me?
The weeping prodigal returned
His father’s house to seek;
His supplication was not spurned—
Love still could welcome speak.
Like him, in grief and penitence,
To mercy’s door I flee,
O Father, wilt thou spurn me thence;
Is there not hope for me?
Yes, there is hope! while He, once crowned
With thorns, now pleads in heaven,
Rejoices o’er the lost one found,
The wanderer forgiven;
To those who mourn and turn from sin
He offers mercy free;
I feel another life begin—
There yet is hope for me!