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.