The
Touch of the Master's Hand
Twas battered
and scarred, and the old auctioneer
Thought it
scarcely worth his while
to waste
much time on the old violin,
But held
it up with a smile:
"What am
I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start
the bidding for me?"
"A dollar,
a dollar"; then, "Two!" "Only two?
Two dollars,
and who'll make it three?
Three dollars,
once; three dollars, twice;
going for
three ..." but no.
From the
room far back, a gray-haired man
Came forward
and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping
the dust from the old violin,
And tightening
the loose strings,
He played
a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling
angel sings.
The music
ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice
that was quiet and low,
Said;
"What am I bidden for the old violin?"
And he held
it up with the bow.
"A thousand!
And who'll make it two?
Two thousand!
And who'll make it three?
Three thousand,
once, three thousand, twice,
And going,
and gone," said he.
The people
cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not
quite understand
What changed
it's worth." Swift came the reply:
"The touch
of the master's hand."
And many a
man with life out of tune,
And battered
and scarred with sun,
Is auctioned
cheep to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like
this old violin.
A "mess of
pottage," a glass of wine;
A game;
and he travels on.
He is "going"
once, "going" twice,
He's "going"
and almost "gone."
But the Master
comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can
quite understand
The worth
of a soul and the change that's wrought
By the touch
of the Master's hand.
--Myra Brooks Welch--