Fathers & Sons by Robin Mark

This City These Streets by Robin Mark

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Fathers & Sons
by Robin Mark

Album: This City These Streets

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 oh this view that I survey
Where men race by on fields of green
Far above the clamoring 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

But 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, You 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 are, Arc angels come
And oh this view that I survey
Where men race by on fields of green
And trapped within the clamoring throng
Some hands are raised, in vain salute
So from your home you must await
My kingdom shall no more retreat
And walk with them in quiet contemplation
And 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