<h3><SPAN name="23">HOLY THURSDAY</SPAN></h3>
Is this a holy thing to see<br/>
In a rich and fruitful land,—<br/>
Babes reduced to misery,<br/>
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
<br/><br/>Is that trembling cry a song?<br/>
Can it be a song of joy?<br/>
And so many children poor?<br/>
It is a land of poverty!
<br/><br/>And their sun does never shine,<br/>
And their fields are bleak and bare,<br/>
And their ways are filled with thorns,<br/>
It is eternal winter there.
<br/><br/>For where’er the sun does shine,<br/>
And where’er the rain does fall,<br/>
Babe can never hunger there,<br/>
Nor poverty the mind appal.
<hr width="150"><br/>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
