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