Holy Thursday
Is this a holy thing to seeIn 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.
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