Who moves my hand tapping the keys,
whirls my head, weakens my knees,
fingers my heart, turns works into art?
Who is the voice stopping all fears,
providing true rest, drying all tears,
shaking my head, raising the dead?
Am I the puppet in a God like play
centre stage on a Summer’s day
pulled by strings any which way?
How am I able make gold from waste,
hold the tongue and check its haste,
cause this poem chant like a heart?
Feel the force that heals by hand,
Instantly causing the lame to stand,
Or know how I’m able to speak?
It can only be Love that truth of old
Creation’s cause made to one mould
Power to all to prevent Man’s fall.
