At Even, Ere 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 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;

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 Power;
No Word From Thee Can Fruitless Fall:
Hear, In This Solemn Evening Hour,
And In Thy Mercy Heal Us All.