It was battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin
But he held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden, good people," he cried,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar! Now 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 grey-haired man
Came forward and picked 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 an angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low
Said, "What am I bid 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 don't 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 torn with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to a 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.