Henry Twells (1823–1900)

AT even, ere the sun was set,

The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;

O in what divers pains they met!

O with what joy they went away!

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.

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;

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 Saviour Christ, Thou too art Man;

Thou hast 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.