| 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 her warmest cloak
|
| And you ask
|
| «What am I not doing?»
|
| She says
|
| «Your voice cannot command»
|
| She says, «In time you will move
|
| Mountains
|
| And it will come
|
| Through your hands.»
|
| Still you angle for an option
|
| Still you argue for your cause
|
| Like you wouldn’t know a burning
|
| Bush
|
| Till it blew up in your face
|
| We dream about the future
|
| We memorize the past
|
| When just a simple reaching out
|
| Could build a bridge that lasts
|
| And you ask
|
| «What am I not doing?»
|
| She says
|
| «Your voice cannot command»
|
| She says, «In time you will move
|
| Mountains
|
| And it will come
|
| 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
|
| Out on that broad highway
|
| Somewhere
|
| Gonna lift you as high as music
|
| Running through an angel’s hair
|
| And don’t worry
|
| What you are not doing
|
| 'Cause your voice cannot command
|
| And in time you will move mountains
|
| And it will come through your hands
|
| Through your hands
|
| Through your hands |