At even, ere the sun was set

At even, ere the sun was set,
The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay
O, with how many pains they met!
O, with what joy they went away!

Once more 'tis eventide, and we,
Oppressed with various ills, draw near
What if Thyself we cannot see?
We know that Thou art ever near.

O Savior 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 best
Are conscious most of wrong within.

O Savior Christ, Thou too art man
Thou has 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.