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 his warmest coat
|
|
And you ask
|
What am I not doing
|
He 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
|
|
And you ask
|
What am I not doing
|
He says
|
Your voice cannot command
|
In time you will move mountains
|
And it will come through your hands
|
Through 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 flyin'
|
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
|
|
-----------------
|
Through Your Hands
|
| Don Henley |
