Dawud Wharnsby (feat Yusuf Islam & Zain Bhikha)–‘The Prophet's Hands’

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’s 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,
Silk and smooth and soft to touch
Sometimes he needs those hands so much,
To feel them clasp his own,
Let him know he’s not alone,

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.
O 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 alone,
Hands worn from too much ironing,
T.V churns out but illusions,
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.

The Prophet’s hands,
Silk and smooth and soft to touch
Sometimes they need those hands so much,
To feel them clasp their own,
Let them know they’re not alone,

The prophet’s hands,
Can bind husband and wife,
Remind them why they share a life,
Clasp them both upon his heart,
Gently help them make a start,
To hold each other as they hold the Prophet’s hands.

Standing in the market square,
So alive but void of life,
We work and we sweat and we struggle through each day.
As our efforts scar our hands,
This road stains us with demands,
It’s hard to see life’s humor in the business games we play.

And as we knar our nails and stress our fists and hearts pant so careless,
And kneel with every effort forward how much more can we regress?

The Prophet’s hands,
Silk and smooth and soft to touch
Sometimes we need those hands so much,
To feel them clasp our own,
Let us know we’re not alone,

The Prophet’s hands,
As we toil in the square,
Come look behind us unaware,
Playful palms across our eyes,
Easing to help us realize,
We need the jesting, joking, loving Prophet’s hands.

The Prophet’s hands
Silk and smooth and soft to touch
Sometimes we need those hands so much,
To feel them clasp our own,
Let us know we’re not alone

The Prophet’s hands,
If they could take over the reigns,
If they could take away the strains,
Guide us to the end,
With the patience of a friend.

O Allah sometimes we need the Prophet’s hands,
O Allah sometimes we need the prophet’s hands,
O Allah sometimes we miss the Prophet’s hands.