Scripture Verse

That evening after sunset the people brought to Jesus all the sick and demon-possessed. The whole town gathered at the door, and Jesus healed many who had various diseases. Mark 1:32–34


Words: Hen­ry Twells, 1868. This hymn was writ­ten in a school class­room. A stu­dent was bu­sy writ­ing an ex­am­in­ation, and was long at it. Twells, the in­struct­or, had to stay un­til the fel­low was done. It was late af­ter­noon, and the sun was be­gin­ning to drop be­low the ho­riz­on. As Twells gazed out the win­dow, his thoughts turned to the sto­ry of Je­sus heal­ing the sick, and in that set­ting he wrote these words.

Music: An­ge­lus Ge­org Jo­seph, Heil­ige Seel­en­lust od­er Geist­liche Hirt­en-Lied­er (Bres­lau [now Wro­cław, Po­land]: 1657) (set to the words Du mein­er Seel­en güld­ne Ziehr) (🔊 pdf nwc).

Alternate Tune:

If you know where to get a good pic­ture of Jo­seph (head & shoul­ders, at least 200×300 pix­els),

Henry Twells (1823–1900)


Le Christ Guérissant un Malade
Mathieu Ignace van Brée (1773–1839)

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.