HOLY THURSDAY
Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,
--
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that
trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children
poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their son does never shine,
And
their fields are bleak and bare,
And their ways are filled with thorns:
It
is eternal winter there.
For where'er the sun does shine,
And where'er
the rain does fall,
Babes should never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind
appall.
HOLY THURSDAY
»
