Fathers and Sons

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Robin Mark » Fathers And Sons

Who is there can reach me,
Here on my high and lifted place
Seated here on shoulders broad,
Secured by hands that fashioned steel
And O this view that I survey,
Where men race by on fields of green.
Far above the clamouring throng,
I raise my hands in small salute.
And to our home then we retire,
When whistle blows the long retreat.
Seated there in quiet contemplation,
Listening for higher dividends.

And I stepped down and you are gone,
But I would give my weight in gold.
When earthly storms come pressing in
To find myself in your embrace.
And oh your hands are worn, bruised
And battered burnished brown.
Hands that lifted tools,
In thirty years to set them down
My small hand could fit,
In your palms hollow, safe secure.
My one ambition this, is one day
To have hands like yours.

Who is there can reach me,
Here on my high and lifted place
Seated here on golden throne
Where angels and archangels dwell
And O this view that I survey,
Where men race by on fields of green.
Trapped within the clamouring throng,
Some hands are raised in vain salute.
So from your home you must away,
My kingdom shall no more retreat.
Walk with them in quiet contemplation,
Tell them of a Father's love.

First a boy and then a man,
A bitter cup to drink You will
Until earthly storms come pressing in,
I'll take You to my own embrace.
And oh Your hands are worn, bruised
And battered burnished brown.
Hands that lifted tools,
At thirty years You set them down
Their small lives can fit,
In Your palms hollow, safe secure.
My only hope is this,
That one day they'd
Have hands like Yours. 

Добавлено: 16 авг 2012 | Eugene