It was battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while,
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile.
"What am I did for this old violin?
You will start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar, who’ll make it two?
Two dollars, and who will make it three?
"Three dollars, once; three dollars twice,
Going for three," But no;
From the back of the room a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow.
Then wiping the dist from the old violin,
And tightening up all the strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet,
As sweet as the 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?"
And he held it up with the bow.
"A thousand dollars, and who will 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 quite understand,
What changed its worth?" Came the reply,
"The touch of a masters hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A "mess of potage," a glass of wine;
A game, and he shuffles along.
He’s going once, and he’s going twice,
He’s going and almost gone.
But the master comes, and the thoughtless crowd
Never quite understands
The worth of a soul, and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.
-Myra Brooks Welch
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