In 1921 this poem, one of my favorites, was written by Myra Brooks Welch, "the poet with the singing soul."
As a young woman, Myra's special love was playing the organ; however, years later, confined in her wheelchair due to severe arthritis, she was unable to make music.
Instead, she used the eraser end of her pencil and slowly typed these words, words that told of the rejoicing she had in God's love.
The Touch of the
It was battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
Hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
"What am I bid, good people," he cried,
"Who starts the bidding for me?"
"One dollar, one dollar, do I hear two?"
"Two dollars, who makes it three?"
"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three."
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 up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet,
As sweet as the angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet low,
Said, "What now am I bid for this old violin?"
As he held it aloft with itsbow.
"One thousand, one thousand, do I hear two?"
"Two thousand, who makes it three?"
"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone," said he.
The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
"We just don't 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,
All battered with bourbon and gin,
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin.
A mess of pottage, a glass of wine
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is 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 is wrought
By the Touch of the Master's Hand