Holy Thursday



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 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.



BY
William Blake






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