You are hereStories / January, 2010 / The Poet With The Singing Soul

The Poet With The Singing Soul


Myra B. Welch in her wheelchair, battered and scarred from severe arthritis

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?

"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 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?"
As 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."

~Poem written by Myra Brooks Welch (1877-1959)
A Poem published in the February 26, 1921 issue of The Gospel Messenger.

Recommend this story to your friends on Facebook:

One World Gallery

Story Archive

Catch-up with all of our past stories!

Videos

Enjoy media related to our content and our cause!
See video
Tierney Sutton - In the Wee Small Hours

Featured Artists

Subscribe

Join us on the Web!
RSS Facebook YouTube