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Christmas Around The World


Easter Poetry

    Holy Thursday: Is this a Holy Thing to See

    Is this a holy thing to see
    In a rich and fruitful land,
    Babes reduc'd 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 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.

    William Blake

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