| Touch of The Master's Hand |
 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |
Two dollars, and who'll make it three? Three dollars,
twice; "Going for three --" But no, From the room, far
back, a gray-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 sweet as a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer With a voice that
was quiet and low said "what am I bidden 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
pottage," 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.
Myra 'Brooks' Welch
twice; "Going for three --" But no, From the room, far
back, a gray-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 sweet as a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer With a voice that
was quiet and low said "what am I bidden 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
pottage," 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.
Myra 'Brooks' Welch