Holy Thursday
Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hands?
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 sun does never shine,
And their fields are black & bare,
ANd their ways are fill'd with thorns;
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e'er the sun does shine,
And where-e'er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hands?
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 sun does never shine,
And their fields are black & bare,
ANd their ways are fill'd with thorns;
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e'er the sun does shine,
And where-e'er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
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