AT even, ere the sun was set,
The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;
Oh, in what divers pains they met!
Oh, in what joy they went away!
Once more 'tis eventide, and we,
Oppressed with various ills, draw near
What if Thy form we cannot see!
We know and feel that Thou art here.
O Saviour Christ, our woes dispel!
For some are sick, and some are sad,
And some have never loved Thee well,
And some have lost the love they had:
And all, O Lord, crave perfect rest,
And to be wholly free from sin;
And they who fain would serve Thee best,
Are conscious most of wrong within.
O Saviour Christ, Thou too art man!
Thou hast been troubled, tempted, tried;
Thy kind but searching glance can scan
The very wounds that shame would hide:
Thy touch has still its ancient power;
No word from Thee can fruitless fall:
Hear in this solemn evening hour
And in Thy mercy heal us all.