At even, ere the sun was set
At even, ere the sun was set,
the sick, O Lord, around thee lay;
O, in what diverse 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,
and yet from the world they break not free;
And some have friends who give them pain,
yet have not sought a friend in thee.
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 Savior Christ, thou too art man;
thou has 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.
Words: Henry Twells, 1868
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