At even, ere the sun was set
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 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.
Sub noctem tibi proximi
iacebant aegri homines:
qui convenere miseri,
mox dimittuntur hilares.
Nos quoque nunc, ut lux abit
venimus cum doloribus,
et, forma cum celata sit,
adesse te cognovimus.
Seu corpus dolet sive cor,
dolores, Jesu, dissipa,
seu tui nullus est amor,
seu dest qui fuit antea.
His nota mundi vanitas
est, nec tamen reiciunt:
hi plorant amicitias,
ut laesi, nec tuam petunt.
Nec ulli pura requies
(sunt omnes culpae conscii)
heu! maxime pudet sui.
Ut nos homo, Salvator, es,
et passus es temptamina
tu perspicaciter vides
quae celat pudor vulnera.
Quod olim, tactus is facit,
nec umquam frustra loqueris;
nos audiens, ut nox adit,
medere clemens sauciis.