A song in the air. I wrote the words down, for now.

—

Little hands to wipe the tears away,

When the world gets too heavy to bear alone

Cause you try to carry six months in a day.

And it wasn’t yours to hold anyway.

—

Little hands to clear the dust from your eyes,

When you’re  lookin’ in the mirror

Stead of gazing at the skies.

And you cry.

—

The strength of stone, and hope and spear,

In the tiniest of faces.

The peace that causes hell to fear

In the fragilist of places.

—

Oh, don’t you know?

That little hands can hold of hand of God.

Oh, don’t you know?

That what you carry can sometimes carry you.

A wave of worried lines across your brow

Or the yoke of the Gentle Master’s plow.

So wipe the weight from the corners of your eyes,

And the chambers of your heart.

And bring the light.

Set it on your shoulders.

In the weepings of the night.

—

Oh, don’t you know?

That little hands can hold the hand of God.

Little hands can hold the hand of God.