The Touch of the Master's Hand

Wednesday, January 18, 2012 | GABAY at 6:24 PM |

I love poems! I inherited this from my mom, who, like me, becomes emotionally attached to beautiful poems. I was 14 when she shared this poem to me and changed me in how I view my life and what I wanted it to become. I kept the copy and inserted it in one my books and lost track of it for nearly 13 years.

I was 27 when a friend was going through difficulties and was inquiring God about the circumstances surrounding her life. She was at a lost! After church, I stumbled upon this poem once more while going through some of my old books. Deep within, I sensed God's prompting that I need to give this poem to her. I took our worn-out typewritter, made a copy and asked my niece to deliver the poem immediately. When we met a couple of days later, she thanked me. The poem answered all her questions and doubts.

I am always blessed when I read this beautiful poem. Let me share this with you...

The Touch of the Master's Hand

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

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,
"Who starts 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 gray 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 Masters 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 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