.:: The Prophet's Hands ::.

Words: D.Wharnsby, Z.Bhikha, Y.Islam / Melody: D.Wharnsby

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 those hands so much,
to feel them clasp his own, let him now 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.
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 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, silken 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’d 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 world stains us with demands.
It’s hard to see life’s humour in the business games we play.
As we gnaw our nails with stress, our fists and hearts pound so carelessly.
With every effort forward, how much more can we digress?


The Prophet’s hands, silken smooth and soft to touch,
sometimes we needs 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 up behind us unaware.
Playful palms across our eyes, teasing to help us realize,
We need the jesting, joking, calming Prophet’s hands.


The Prophet’s hands,
silken smooth and soft to touch
sometimes we needs those hands so much,
to feel them clasp our own and 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.


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