Holy Thursday
’TWAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,Came children walking two and two, in red, 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.
O 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 wind, they raise to heaven the voice of song,Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among;Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.