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'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer Thought is scarcely worth his while To waste his time on the old violin But he held it up with a smile.
"What am I bid, good friends?" he cried, "Who'll start the bidding for me? One dollar! Only one? And who'll make it two? Two dollars, and three!
Three dollars once, and three dollars, twice, And going, going," but no . . . From the back of the room a gray-haired man Came forward and picked up the bow.
And wiping the dust from the old violin, And tightening a few loose strings, He played a melody pure and sweet As caroling angels sing.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer With a voice that was quiet and low, Said, "What am I bid for the old violin?" As he held it up with the bow.
"One thousand dollars, and who'll make it two? Two thousand , and three! Three thousand, once, and three thousand twice, And going, and going, and gone!" said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried, "We don't quite understand What changed its worth." Swiftly came the reply, "'Twas the touch of the Master's Hand."
And many a man with his life out of tune And battered and scarred with sin, Are auctioned cheap to the 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, And gone, almost gone.
But the Master comes, and the thoughtless crowd Never can quite understand The worth of a soul, and the change that is wrought, By the touch of the Master's Hand. -Myra B. Welch
