| 1 | At even when 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!
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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.
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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;
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*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;
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*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.
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O Savior 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.
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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
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JEHOVAH RAPHA
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