'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 folks," he cried,

"Who'll start the bidden for me?

A dollar, a dollar... now who'll make it 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 gray-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 bidden for the old violin?"

And he held it up with the bow.

"A thousand dollars--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 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 torn with sin,

Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd

Much like the old violin.



A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,

A game and he travels on.

He's going once, and going twice--

He's 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's wrought

By the touch of the Master's hand.