The Old Violin

'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while,
To waste much time on 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 – then two, only two –
Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
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 string,
He played a melody pure and sweet,
As a carolling angel sings.

The Music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, “Now 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, and who'll make it three?
Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
And going, and gone,” cried he.

The people cheered, but some of them said,
“We fail to understand,
What changed the worth?” – quick 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 a thoughtless world,
Much like the old violin.

A “Mess of Pottage;” a glass of wine,
A game – and he travels on;
He is going once – he is going twice –
He is going, and almost gone!

But the Saviour comes, and the foolish world
Is so slow to understand,
The worth of a soul, and the change that's worked,
By the touch of The Master's Hand.