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Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer Thought it scarcely worth his while To waste much time on the old violin, But 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, 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, but 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 scattered with sin, Is auctioned off 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 quite understands The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought By the touch of the Master's hand. Authored By: Myra Brooks Welch |
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