‘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
Who will start bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar – then Two! Only two?
Two dollars, and 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 the loose strings
He played a melody pure and sweet
As sweet as a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low
Said What am I bidden for the old violin?
And he held it up with the bow.
A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?
Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?
Three thousand once; three thousand, twice;
And going, and gone! said he.
The people cheered and some of them cried
We do not 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
And battered and scattered with sin
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.
A “mess of pottage a glass of wine;
A game – and he travels on.
He’s “going” once and ” going” twice
He’s “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’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.