|
through your hands |
|
|
|
You
were dreamin' on a park bench |
|
'Bout
a broad highway somewhere |
|
When
the music from the carillon |
|
Seemed
to hurl your heart out there |
|
Past
the scientific darkness |
|
Past
the fireflies that float |
|
To
an angel bending down |
|
To
wrap you in her warmest coat |
|
|
|
CHORUS: |
|
And
you ask, "What am I not doing?" |
|
She
says |
|
"Your
voice cannot command. |
|
In
time, you will move mountains, |
|
And
it will come through your hands." |
|
|
|
Still
you argue for an option |
|
Still
you angle for your case |
|
Like
you wouldn't know a burning bush |
|
If
it blew up in your face |
|
Yeah,
we scheme about the future |
|
And
we dream about the past |
|
When
just a simple reaching out |
|
Might
build a bridge that lasts |
|
|
|
REPEAT
CHORUS |
|
|
|
So
whatever your hands find to do |
|
You
must do with all your heart |
|
There
are thoughts enough |
|
To
blow men's minds and tear great worlds apart |
|
|
|
There's
a healing touch to find you |
|
On
that broad highway somewhere |
|
To
lift you high |
|
As
music flying |
|
Through
the angel's hair. |
|
|
|
Don't
ask what you are not doing |
|
Because
your voice cannot command |
|
In
time we will move mountains |
|
And
it will come through your hands |