The Touch of the Masters Hand

‘Twas battered and scarred and the auctioneer

Thought it was scarcely worth his while

To 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 the bidding for me?

A dollar – a dollar – now, 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 up all the strings,

He played a melody pure and sweet

As sweet as an angel sings.


The music ceased, and the auctioneer

With a voice that was quiet and low,

Said, “What am I bid for the violin?”

And 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 said,

“We do not understand –

What changed the worth?” The man replied:

“The touch of the master’s hand.”


And many a person with life out of tune

And battered and torn with sin,

Is auctioned cheap to a worthless crowd,

Much like the old violin.


A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,

A game – and they travel on,

They’re going once, and going twice,

They’re 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.