had read this poem umpteen times before,
time and again, it never fails to touch me.

**the touch of the master's hand**

it was battered and scarred,
and the autioneer 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 to bid, gd 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 grey-haired man
came forward and pick 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 autioneer
with a voice that was quiet 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 autioned 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 Master's Hand.

--- Myra Brooks Welch