At even, when the sun was set, The sick, O Lord, around thee lay; O in what divers pains they met! O with 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 Savior 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 some have found the world is vain, Yet from the world they break not free, And some have friends who give them pain, Yet have not sought a friend in thee. | 363 And none, O Lord, have perfect rest, For none are wholly free from sin; And they who fain would love thee best Are conscious most of wrong within. | O Savior 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. | |