I recently was rummaging through some old books, re-examining the value of a personal library since the internet has the library of the world. Shelves of books are now but a pebble on the mountain of information available on my phone.
One book was marked with a laminated card, one of many bookmarks I’ve received over the years. On it was a poem written by Myra Brooks Welch in 1921. The wording is tinged with a previous era, yet for me, its message called to mind the experience of going to confession.
Like the old violin in the poem, we too get covered with the dust of the world. We ourselves get out of tune. With the caring touch of the Master’s hand — the presence of Jesus Christ in the sacrament of reconciliation –— we are dusted off and, with strings tuned, sent forth to play the melody of Easter joy. “… a melody, pure and sweet, as sweet as the angel sings.”
“The Old Violin” by Myra Brooks Welch
‘Twas 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 no.
From the room far back a gray bearded 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 the 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 Master’s Hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune
All battered and bruised with hardship
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’s 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.
