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TOUCH OF THE MASTER'S HAND (Myra Brook Welch) 'Twas battered and scarred and the old auctioneer He though it scarcely worthwhile To waste much time with the old violin But he held it up with a smile What am I bidden, good folk, he cried Who'll start the bidding for me A dollar, a dollar, come, who'll make it two Two dollars, now who'll make it three Three dollars once and three dollars twice And going for three -- but no From the back of the room a grey haired man Stepped forward and picked up the bow And brushing the dust from the old violin And tightening up the loose strings He played a melody pure and so sweet Sweet as the angels sing When the music ceased the old auctioneer In a voice that was quiet and low Asked, What am I bidden for the old violin And he held it up with the bow A thousand dollars -- come, who'll make it two Two thousand, and who'll make it three Three thousand once and three thousand twice And going and gone, cried he And the people shouted, and some of them cried We do not quite 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 scarred 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 he's 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 is wrought By the touch of the master's hand Poem written by Myra Brook Welch in 1927. Published in "The Messenger" and "Good Old Days" Set to music by Sally Rogers filename[ MASTRHND @music JN oct96 |
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