Over every living thing;
Dead, gone or begotten
I see a hand.
Under the sun and sobering clouds;
The same light shining for proud and poor
Dwells among, keeping them cool,
Hips and piles of dirt;
Hills and clouds of sin,
Myriad of languish
I feel the hand;
It is a weaver of meandering souls and wondering minds
The breaker of silence; a happy end to a mad son
The torch in the darkness; the present in a past,
A string of strength in the weary
I see a hand,
Each time a tear drops or hope is lost,
A hand to wipe, a hand to strike
I see for you in times of shortened hope;
Faith and joy lost or found,
In those times, and through now;
I see a hand and you know whose it is.
Be grateful and say out
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem