U
upbeatjonm
Guest
Has anyone read this poem before? My mother had it on an old prayer card: 
'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer Thought it scarcely worth his whileTo waste much time on the old violin, But held it up with a smile.“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried, “Who’ll start the 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 grey-haired man Came forward and picked up the bow;Then wiping the dust from the old violin, And tightening the loosened strings,He played a melody pure and sweet, As a caroling 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 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 is “going” once, and “going” twice, He’s “going” and almost "gone."But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd Never can quite understandThe worth of a soul and the change that is wrought By the touch of the Master’s hand. – Myra Brooks Welch
'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer Thought it scarcely worth his whileTo waste much time on the old violin, But held it up with a smile.“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried, “Who’ll start the 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 grey-haired man Came forward and picked up the bow;Then wiping the dust from the old violin, And tightening the loosened strings,He played a melody pure and sweet, As a caroling 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 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 is “going” once, and “going” twice, He’s “going” and almost "gone."But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd Never can quite understandThe worth of a soul and the change that is wrought By the touch of the Master’s hand. – Myra Brooks Welch
