Touch of the Master’s Hand

T’was battered and scared, and the auctioneer Thought it scarcely worth his while To waste much time on the old violin, But he 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 grey 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 bid for the old violin?” And he held it up with the bow. “A thousand dollars, 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 its worth?” Swift came the reply: “The touch of the master’s hand.” And many a man with life out of tune, And batterd and scarred with sin, Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd, Much like the old violin. A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine; A game, and he travels on. He’s “going” once, and “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 Welsh