At Even, Ere the Sun Was Set

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 weOppressed 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 are pressed with worldly care,And some are tried with sinful doubt,And some such grievous passions tear,That only thou canst cast them out;

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 bestAre conscious most of wrong within.

O Saviour Christ, thou too art man;Thou hast been troubled, tempted, tried;Thy kind but searching glance can scanThe 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.