The Touch of The Master’s Hand

T’was battered and scared, and the auctioneerThought it scarcely worth his whileTo waste much time on the old violin,But he held it up with a smile.“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,“Who’ll start bidding for me?A dollar, a dollar – now who’ll make it 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 manCame 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 auctioneerWith a voice that was quiet and low,Said: “What am I bidden now 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 twiceAnd going – and gone,” said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,“We do not quite understand –What changed its worth?” The man replied:“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 a 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 wroughtBy the touch of the MASTER’S hand.

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