Precious Lord

The old man stooped, gripping his arms across his chest and singing into his microphone as if he sang the song to himself. Every other song was somehow hours and hours forgotten behind this one. "Precious Lord, take my hand," he sang...to no one there. Big sunglasses hid his eyes, and thick tears rolled down his cheeks, one after another. "And lead me on," he sang, every eye watching. Why did he cry? His voice wept and broke. Emotion soared, the instrument unwritten in notes and score. It filled the eyes of every silent onlooker. Spellbinding. "Lead me on. Through the night." He prayed. "Precious Lord."

"Precious Lord". Blind boys of Alabama.

Precious Lord. Take my hand. And lead me on. Let me stand. I am tired. I am weak. I am worn. The storm...through the night. Lead me on. Through the night. Precious Lord. Take my hand. And lead me on. When the night grows so dreary. Precious Lord. Draw me near. I am tired. I am weak. And I'm so worn. The river. Lord I stand. Guide me feet. And hold my hand. Precious Lord. Take my hand. And lead. Lead me home. Lead me home.