The Touch Of The Master’s Hand
Myra
B. Welch

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 grey-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 The
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 potage,’
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.