'Twas battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.
"What
am I bid, good people", he
cried,
"Who starts the bidding for
me?"
"One dollar, one dollar, Do I
hear two?"
"Two dollars, who makes it
three?"
"Three dollars once, three
dollars twice, going for three,"
But,
No,
From the room far back a gray bearded
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 the angel sings.
The
music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said "What now am I bid for this
old violin?"
As he held it aloft with its' bow.
"One
thousand, one thousand, Do I hear
two?"
"Two thousand, Who makes it
three?"
"Three thousand once, three
thousand twice,
Going and gone", said he.
The
audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
"We just don't understand."
"What changed its' worth?"
Swift came the reply.
"The Touch of the Masters
Hand."
And
many a man with life out of tune
All battered with bourbon and gin
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless
crowd
Much like that old violin
A
mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is 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 is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters' Hand.
Myra Brooks Welch
