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TOUCH OF THE MASTER"S HAND(Myra Brook Welch)"Twas battered and scarred and the old auctioneerHe though it scarcely worthwhileTo waste much time with the old violinBut he held it up with a smileWhat am I bidden, good folk, he criedWho"ll start the bidding for meA dollar, a dollar, come, who"ll make it twoTwo dollars, now who"ll make it threeThree dollars once and three dollars twiceAnd going for three -- but noFrom the back of the room a grey haired manStepped forward and picked up the bowAnd brushing the dust from the old violinAnd tightening up the loose stringsHe played a melody pure and so sweetSweet as the angels singWhen the music ceased the old auctioneerIn a voice that was quiet and lowAsked, What am I bidden for the old violinAnd he held it up with the bowA thousand dollars -- come, who"ll make it twoTwo thousand, and who"ll make it threeThree thousand once and three thousand twiceAnd going and gone, cried heAnd the people shouted, and some of them criedWe do not quite understandWhat changed its worth -- swift came the replyThe touch of the master"s handAnd many a man with life out of tuneAnd battered and scarred with sinIs auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowdMuch like the old violinA mess of pottage, a glass of wineA game and he travels onHe"s going once and he"s going twiceHe"s going and almost goneBut the master comes and the foolish crowdNever can quite understandThe worth of a soul and the change that is wroughtBy the touch of the master"s handPoem written by Myra Brook Welch in 1927.Published in "The Messenger" and "Good Old Days"Set to music by Sally Rogersfilename< MASTRHND
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