-The Touch of the Masters Hand-

 My sister, told me about this poem by Myra Brooks Welch, after reading it I liked it so much I thought I would share it here. :)
 

The Touch of the Master's Hand

 

'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer

 Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste his 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, - now two, only two
 Two dollars, 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 the 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?"
                             As he held it aloft with the bow.                             

A thousand dollars- and who'll make it two?
    "Two thousand, Who'll makes it three?"
"Three thousand once, and three thousand twice,
Going and gone!" said he.

The  people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand-
"What changed it's worth?" The man replied:
     "The Touch of the Masters Hand!"

                          

And many a man with life out of tune
And battered and torn with sin
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 Masters' Hand.

 

-Myra Brooks Welch-