’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
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 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! 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 don’t 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's “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."
