The Tough of the Master’s Hand

The Tough of the Master’s Hand

‘Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile;
“What am I bidden, good folks” he cried,
“Who̓ll start the bidding for me?
A dollar—One dollar—then two, only two—
Two dollars, and who̓ll make It three?
Going for three”—but no—
From the room far back, a grayhaired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loosened strings,
He played a melody pure and sweetAs a caroling̓ angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, “Now what am I bid for the old violin?”
And he held it up with the bow;
“A thousand dollars—and who̓ll make It two?
Two thousand and who̓ll make it three?
Three thousand once—three thousand twice—
And going—and gone,” cried he;
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
“We don̓t understand;
What changed its worth?” Quick came the reply,
“The touch of a master̓s hand.”

And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
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;
He̓s going once—and going twice—
He̓s going—and almost gone!
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd,
Never can quite understand.
The worth of a soul, and the change that̓s wrought
By the tough of the Master’s Hand.