The Prophet’s Hands Dawud Wharnsby Ali (Ft. Yusuf Islam & Zain Bhikha)

Holding to the wheel, each mile closer to conclusion
His knuckles and his strands of hair are slowly turning white
As he studies all the lines, like highways on his hands
He recalls how straight the road once seemed, as he is left wondering what's right
The paths all curve and bend, sometimes he thinks they'll never end
How much longer will he push on? How much more can he pretend?

The Prophet's hands
Silken smooth and soft to touch
Sometimes he needs thosе hands so much
To feel them clasp his own
Let him now he's not alonе

The Prophet's hands
If they could take over the reigns
If they could take away the strains
Guide him to the end with the patience of a friend
Oh Allah, sometimes he needs the Prophet's hands

Stepping out to work each day, come whatever weather
Father of the house he holds worry in his hands
While she stays home left all alone
Hands warn from too much ironing
T.V. churns out but illusion
Claims to know but hardly understands
They greet but hardly meet, upon an endless dead-end street
While children break the stormy silence of the palms raised in defeat