THE TOUCH OF THE MASTER'S HAND
THE TOUCH OF THE MASTER'S HAND
T'was 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 bid, good folk," he cried
"Who'll start 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 gray-haired man came forward
And picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening up the 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, "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 Masters Hand!"
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and torn 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!"
by Myra Brooks Welch
