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 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,
Babes should never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
ÀÌ ½ÃÁý¿¡ µîÀåÇÏ´Â Holy Thursday¶ó´Â ÀÛǰ¿¡¼´Â ÈÀÚ°¡ ¿µ±¹ÀÌ ³Ê¹« ¸¹Àº ÀÚ³àµéÀ» ºó°ï¿¡¼ »ìµµ·Ï ºñ³ÇÏ¸é¼ 'ºÎÀ¯ÇÏ°í °á½ÇÀ» ¸Î´Â' ³ª¶ó¶ó´Â °ÍÀ» ½ºÄµµé·Î °£ÁÖÇϰí ÀÖ´Ù. »ç½Ç, µÎ ¹øÂ° ±¸ÀýÀº ù ¹øÂ° ±¸ÀýÀ» ¹Ù·Î Àâ°í ÀÖ´Ù. À×±Û·£µå´Â ±×°÷¿¡ »ì°í ÀÖ´Â ¼ö¸¹Àº °¡³ÇÑ ¾î¸°À̵éÀÌ ÀÖÀ» ¶§ °áÄÚ 'ºÎÀÚ ±¹°¡'¶ó°í ºÎ¸± ÀÚ°ÝÀÌ ¾ø´Ù´Â ÀǹÌÀÌ´Ù. ÀÌ ¾ÆÀ̵éÀº Æò¿ÂÇÑ È¯°æ¿¡¼ »ì¾Æ¾ß Çϸç, ¾ÆÀ̵éÀÇ Ã´¹ÚÇÑ »îÀº '¿µ¿øÇÑ °Ü¿ï'°úµµ °°Àº Çö½ÇÀ̶ó°í ÇÑ´Ù. ´Ù½Ã ¸»ÇÏÁö¸¸, ¸¶Áö¸· ÀýÀº ¾î¸°À̵éÀ̰¡ ±¾ÁÖ¸®´Â ºó°ï °¡¿îµ¥ À־ ¾ÈµÈ´Ù´Â ¶æÀÌ´Ù.