1 At even, when the sun did set,
The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay.
Oh, in what divers pains they met!
Oh, 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 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;
4 And some are pressed with worldly care,
And some are tried with sinful doubt;
And some such previous 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 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.
7 O Savior Christ, Thou, too, art man;
Thou hast been troubled, tempted, tried.
Thy kind bu searching glance can scan
The very wounds that shame would hide.
8 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.
|First Line:||At even, when the sun did set|
|Title:||At Even, When the Sun Did Set|
|Author:||Henry Twells (1868)|
|Topic:||Times and Seasons: Evening|
|Source:||"Heilige Seelenlust," Breslau, 1657, ad.|