The Touch of the Master's Hand

Twas battered and scarred and the auctioneerThought it scarcely worth his whileTo waste much time on the old violinBut 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&md;But noFrom the room, far back, a gray haired manCame forward and pick up the bow.

Then wiping the dust from the old violinAnd tightening the loosened stringsHe played a melody pure and sweetAs a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneerWith a voice that was quiet and lowSaid, "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&md;three thousand twiceAnd going and gone," said he.

The people cheered but some of them criedWe do not quite understand.What changed its worth? Swift came the replyThe touch of the master's hand.

And many a man with life out of tuneAnd battered and scarred with sin.Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowdMuch like the old violin.

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,A game&md;he travels on.He's "going" once, and "going" twiceHe's going and almost gone.

But the Master comes and the foolish crowdNever can quite understandThe worth of a soul and change that's wroughtBy the touch of the Master's hand.