The Master’s Hand

This poem was written by Myra Brooks Welch. She was called “The poet with the singing soul”, perhaps because she came from a musical family. As a young woman, Myra’s special love was playing the organ.

In 1921, she heard a speaker address a group of students. She said she became filled with light that “Touch of the Master’s Hand” was written in 30 minutes! She sent it anonymously to her church news bulletin. She felt it was a gift from God and didn’t need her name on it. It’s popularity spread like magic. Finally, several years later, the poem was read at a religious international convention - “author unknown.” A young man stood up and said, “I know the author, and it’s time the world did too. It was written by my mother, Myra Welch.”

Then her name, as well her other beautiful works of poetry became known worldwide. All of her poetry told of the rejoicing she had in God’s love.

What the world did not see, was the woman who created these masterpieces: Ms. Welch was in a wheelchair, battered and scarred from severe arthritis, which had taken away her ability to make music. Instead, her musical soul spoke through her poetry.

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THE TOUCH OF THE MASTER’S HAND

It was 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 grey haired 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 Masters Hand.”

 

And many a man with life out of tune,
All battered with bourbon and gin,
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 is 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.