At even when 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 Savior Christ, our woes dispel;

For some are sick, and some are sad,

And some have never love 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 Savior 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.