Twas 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 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. . ." 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 the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and
sweet
As a caroling angel sings.

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’ll make it two?
Two
thousand dollars, 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 a 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 potage," 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 B. Welch