725		LM
	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!
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 tried with sinful doubt; And some such grievous passions tear     That only Thou canst cast them out;
5	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.
6	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