Holy Thursday

By William Blake, Songs of Experience

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 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, 
Babe can never hunger there, 
    Nor poverty the mind appal.
 
Advertisements

One thought on “Holy Thursday”

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s