1  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!

 2  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.

 3  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;

 4  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;

 5  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.

 6  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.

 7  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.