Anne Lastman A Reflection “Peter,” The Holy Father, Pope Francis, without breaking the line of…
T’was battered , scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth the 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’ll start the bidding for me?
One dollar? …Now do I hear two?
To dollars…now who males it three?”
Three dollars once…three dollars twice,
Going for three….” But no!
From the room far back a greybearded 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 angels sing.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low
Said, “What now am I bid for the old violin?”
As he held it aloft with its bow.
“One thousand?” said he. “Two thousand?
And now two thousand and who makes it three?
Three thousand once, three thousand twice….
And going and gone” said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
“We don’t 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,
All 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, a 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
Can never quite understand
The worth of a soul, the change that was wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.