Touch of the Masters Hand
Tíwas battered and
scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden,
good folks," he cried,
"Whoíll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar," then, two! Only two?
"Two dollars, and whoíll make it three?
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 loose 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.
dollars, and whoíll make it two?
Two thousand! And whoíll make it three?
Three thousand, once; three thousand, twice;
And going and gone," said he.
cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand
What changed its worth?" Swift came the reply:
"The touch of a masterís 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
potage," a glass of wine;
A game, and he travels on.
He is "going" once, and "going" twice,
Heís "going" and almost "gone."
But the Master comes and the
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change thatís wrought
By the touch of the Masterís hand.
Brooks Welch, a resident of La Verne, California, was called
"The poet with the singing soul." Hers was a very musical
family. As a young woman, Myraís special love was playing the
she heard a speaker address a group of students. She said she
became filled with light, and "Touch of the Masterís Hand wrote
itself in 30 minutes!" She sent it anonymously to her church
news bulletin. She felt it was a gift from God, and didnít need
her name on it. Itís popularity spread like magic. Finally,
several years later, the poem was read at a religious
international convention - "author unknown." A young man stood
up and said, "I know the author, and itís time the world did
too. It was written by my mother, Myra Welch."
name, as well her other beautiful works of poetry, became known
worldwide. All of her poetry told of the rejoicing she had in
world did not see, was the woman who created these masterpieces:
Myra in her wheelchair, battered and scarred from severe
arthritis, which had taken away her ability to make music.
Instead, her musical soul spoke through her poetry.
one pencil in each of her badly disabled hands. Using the eraser
end, she would slowly type the words, the joy of them
outweighing the pain of her efforts. Her words, a joyous
expression of the wonders of life, as seen by a singing soul,
Touched by the Masterís Hand.