What the Touch of His Hand Means to Me by Suzanne Hancock

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'll make it three?”

I know all too well

the scratches and scrapes on my soul,

the broken strings of my heart,

and the cheap price tag

that displays my worth to the world.

"Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;

      Going for three…" But no,

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 the loosened strings,

He played a melody pure and sweet,

      As a caroling angel sings.

Yet, I have also experienced the love

that comes from those who care enough

to see beyond my imperfections.

I have had Bishops, family members,

friends, and an angel mother

who picked me up and dusted me off

through their promptings, their prayers,

and their faith in me.

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.

My music has changed from

the simple tune of “Chopsticks”

to a magnificent symphony

when I have been able to see and to feel

that I have divinity within me.

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.”

Just a touch. A mother’s prayer. A friend’s hug.

A simple smile. A note. A listening ear.

All it takes sometimes is for one person

to listen to a prompting

and then to act ~

to become the hands of the Savior. 

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.

Do we ever think that someone

is beyond saving?

That they have done too much,

gone too far,

to be rescued?

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."

What if those who sparked music

back into my spirit

had given up on me

when I was “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.

Feeling a burden literally lifted from my shoulders,

feeling redeemed,

feeling like I do matter.

Knowing that many of those drops

in Gethsemane were shed

to help me rediscover the daughter of God I am.

The cross and the empty tomb

are a testament to me

that I have the potential to become

a Stradivarius

because of the Master’s love for me.

Every fiber of my being exclaims Hallelujah!