The Touch of The Master's Hand

'Twas 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,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
" A dollar, a dollar. Then two! Only two?
Two dollars, and who will 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 loosened strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet,
As a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quite and low,
Said: "What am I bid for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.
" A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?
Two thousand! 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 quite 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 scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like this old violin.

A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine,
A game - And he travels on.
He is "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 the soul and the change that is wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.
-Myra Brooks Welch

My Kate

My Kate
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning




She was not as pretty as women I know,
And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow
Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways,
While she's still remembered on warm and cold days--
                                                                                       My Kate.
Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;
You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face;
And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,
You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth--
                                                                           My Kate.
Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke,
You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke;
When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone,
Thought the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone--
                                                                                        My Kate.
I doubt if she said to you much that could act
As a thought or suggestion; she did not attract
In the sense of the brilliant or wise; I infer
'Twas her thinking of others made you think of her--
                                                                                      My Kate.
She never found fault with you, never implied
Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town
The children were gladder that pulled at her gown--
                                                                                      My Kate.
None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall;
They knelt more to God than they used--that was all;
If you praised her as charming, some asked what you meant,
But the charm of her presence was felt when she went--
                                                                                           My Kate.
The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude,
She took as she found them, and did them all good;
It always was so with her--see what you have!
She made the grass greener even here with her grave--
                                                                                          My Kate.