The Touch of the Master's Hand
'Twas battered and scarred, and the 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 people," he cried,
"And who’ll start the bidding for me?
A dollar—a dollar—now 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,
And wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening all its strings
He played a melody pure and sweet
As sweet as an angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low
Said, "Now what am I bid for the old violin?"
And held it up with the bow.
"A thousand dollars, now two—only 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 understand
What changed its worth."—Quick came the reply—
The touch of the Master's hand.
And many a man with life out of tune
And battered and scarred by sin
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.
A mess of porridge, a glass of wine, a game
And he travels on
He's going once—he's going twice
He's going and almost gone.
But the Master comes, and thoughtless crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul, or the change that is wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.
--Anonymous |
