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 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 none, O Lord, have perfect rest,
For none are 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 pow'r;
No word from thee can fruitless fall:
Hear in this solemn evening hour,
And in thy mercy heal us all.