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                                        The touch of the Master's hand!

                                         T'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, Wait, 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 up the strings, 
                                           He played a melody, pure and sweet, 
                                           As sweet as a caroling 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 Masters Hand."
                                               And many a man with life out of tune, 
                                               All battered and scarred with sin, 
                                               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.
                                           "The Master's Hand" was written by Myra Brooks Welch. 
                                             She was called "The poet with the singing soul." Hers was 
                                             a very musical family. As a young woman, Myra's special 
                                             love was playing the organ.

                                             Music: By Bill Anderson -- The Master's Hands
                                             Page: A special request from my best friend -- My wife!