Holy Thursday (Experience)

 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 sun does never shine.

And their fields are bleak & 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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