1 At even, ere 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 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; 4 And some are pressed with worldly care, And some are tired with sinful doubt; And some such grievous passions tear, That only thou canst cast them out. 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 Saviour 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.