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'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
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 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 a master's
hand."
And many a man with life
out of tune,
And battered 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 is '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 Welch
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