It was 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 and smiled.
What'll my bid, good folks? he cried.
Who'll start the bidding for me?
And who'll make it three?
But no, from the room far back
a gray -haired man came forward
Tightening up all the loose strings,
as sweet as an angel sings
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.
Going and going, said he.
we do not understand what
The man smiled and replied,
the touch of the master's hand.
You know, many a man with
and battered and torn with sin,
much like the old violin,
a bowl of porridge, a glass of wine,
a game, and he travels on.
He's going once, going twice,
he's going and almost gone.
But then the master comes,
well, they can never quite understand
an d the change that's wrought
by the touch of the Master's hand.