The Touch of the Master's hand

It was battered and scarred and the auctioneer

Thought it was scarcely worth his while

To waste his time with the old violin,

But he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people," he cried

"Who started 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..." But no!

From the room, far back, a grey-bearded 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 now am I bid for this old violin?"

As he held it aloft with its bow.

"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 the 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, the change that is wrought,

By the Touch of the Master's Hand.