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?

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.