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.
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