April is all about poetry – Vol. 1, no. 30

Since this is the last day of April, so this also will be the last entry in this series.  This particular poem was first presented to this writer about thirty years ago, but there wasn’t any indication as to who had penned the piece.  It wasn’t until about three years ago after reading this wonderful poem again, that this writer finally took the initiative to see if the writer could be ascertained.  The internet can be a wonderful tool when such things as the names of writers are finally attributed to their works, which before this had almost been lost to anonymity.  This wonderful poem was written by Myra B. Welch who lived from 1877-1959, and the title of her piece is:

‘The Touch of the Master’s Hand’


‘T’was 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’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 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 it’s worth.’  Swift came the reply:

‘The Touch of a 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 the 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

can never quite understand

The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought

by the Touch of the Master’s Hand.

If you are a Christian poet in the Chicago area, at least for the month of April, this writer would like to make available to other poets a place to exhibit some of your poems. Please only submit your own original poems, since you can give permission to publish your work. You can contact this writer at poetess755@gmail.com. Your poems must glorify the Lord God, or His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ or the Word of God. God Bless you in your endeavors.


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