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 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.
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.
Henry Twells, 1823-1900