Sometimes I stand a moment,
And let my hand rest there;
Other times I softly pat it,
When I'm on my way elsewhere.

I often hold it to my cheek,
Sometimes I firmly press;
If I'm having anxious moments,
I may hug it to my breast.

Every time I touch my Book,
It's like a prayer is being said;
I don't need to speak aloud,
My touch conveys what's in my head.

Sometimes I have no message,
I just put out my hand;
It's as if for one quick second,
I know God understands.

You know I would not do this,
If I got nothing back;
But I get this wondrous feeling,
Like I've made divine contact.

If I pick it up and carry it,
I am bathed in gentle heat;
I feel it slowly covering me,
From my head down to my feet.

Mostly I just touch my Book,
When I am passing by;
And for a fleeting moment,
I feel I've caught God's eye.