…from the ashes of the world
The Touch of the Master’s Hand
Myra Brooks Welch It was battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile. “What am I bid, good people”, he cried,
“Who starts the bidding for me?”
“One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?”
“Two dollars, who makes it three?”
“Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,” But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded 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 the angel sings. The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said “What now am I bid for this old violin?”
As he held it aloft with its’ bow. “One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?”
“Two thousand, Who makes it three?”
“Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone”, said he. The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
“We just don’t 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
All battered with bourbon and gin
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that 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 Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Master’s Hand.
I read this poem a couple of weeks ago and cried.
The beauty of the statement here hits so close to home, for I am:
a life out of tune
a mess of potage
a battered instrument
I completely understand, I’ve been there.
The posting on Blueprint for Life by Randy Alcom, which was where I had read this lovely poem, said that numerous comments accompanied the poem as he searched for it, including this one: “As an amateur musician, a Christian, and generally a human being, I have to say, I hate this poem on so many levels…”
My reply was this
~Maybe it is only recognized for its worth by someone who was battered and torn and then touched by the Master’s Hand: a beautiful life reborn from the ashes of the world. I am that broken violin that the Lord is playing ever so beautifully and am truly thankful that He is holding me in His hands and caressing me with His bow. I can’t imagine what my life would be like now if I had not become part of the Master’s song. But to hide the fact that I was broken and ugly would be truly sad, for it is in the recognition of the change and the beauty seen beneath that offensive exterior that the Master truly shines for all to see. I am proud to be a tattered instrument for the Lord to play. Thank you for the beautiful poem that serves as a reminder of the ugliness and worthlessness that becomes such beauty in the hands of the Master Creator.
Soli Deo Gloria!