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Holy Thursday (Experience)

by
 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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