Holy Thursday
’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent
faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in read,
and blue, and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands
as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul’s they
like Thames waters flow.
Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers
of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance
all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes
of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their
innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wild they raise to heaven
the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of
heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged man, wise guardians
of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from
your door.
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