At even, ere the sun was set,
The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;
Oh, in what divers pains they met!
Oh, with what joy they went away!
Once more ’tis eventide; and we,
Oppress’d 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 sin within.
Thy touch has still its ancient power;
No word from Thee can fruitless fall;
Here in this solemn evening hour,
Lord, in Thy mercy heal us all.
Rev. Henry Twells/Timothy B. Mason