THE TOUCH OF THE MASTER'S HAND

'Twas battered, scarred, and the auctioneer thought it scarcely worth his while,
To waste his time with an old violin, but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people,” he cried, “Who'll start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar!  Now, 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 up the strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet, as sweet as an 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 torn within,
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd much like the old violin.

A mass of pottage, 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 understand
The worth of a soul, and the change that's wrought by the touch of the Master's hand.