“Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneerThought 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 manCame 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 crowdMuch 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 crowdNever can quite understandThe worth of a soul and the change that is wroughtBy the touch of the Master’s hand.”