The Touch of the Master's Hand

'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it was scarcely worth his while
To waste so much time on the old violin,
But he 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, 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 a life,
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.