Twas battered and scarred,
and the auctioneer thought
it was 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 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 angels sings.
The music ceased,and the auctioneer,
with a voice that was quite and low,
Said:
"What am I bid for the old violin?"
And held it up with a 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,going and gone,
"said he.
The people cheered,
but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand
What's changed it's worth.
"Swift came the reply:
"The touch of the masters 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 "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 MASTERS HAND.
Poem by Myra Brooks Welch
