Through Your Hands by Don Henley You were dreaming on a park bench about 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 his warmest coat  and you ask "What am I not doing?" he says your voice cannot command. In time you will move mountains, it will come through your hands.  Still you argue for an option, still you anger for your case like you wouldn't know a burning bush if it blew up in your face. Well, we scheme about the future and we dream about the past when just a simple reaching out might build a bridge that lasts. Yet you ask, "What am I not doing?" he says your voice cannot command. In time you will move mountains, it will come thourgh your hands.  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. So don't ask what you are not doing, because your voice cannot command. In time you will move mountains, it will come through your hands.  |