This evening my Dad called to ask if I had a copy of the poem "The Touch of the Master's Hand". A very good friend of his had died yesterday evening. He was 90 yrs old. This friend had played the violin for years. However, this friend did not know Jesus as his Savior. One week ago on Sunday evening, he asked the Savior to save him.
My Dad has been asked by the family to read this poem at his funeral tomorrow. Pray for the family and rejoice that there is one more child of God that is heaven. To the right is a picture of my Dad's friend. His name is Clint Kilgore.
We all need the touch of the Master's hand ( his nail scarred hand) just as Mr. Kilgore did. For years he had relied on his church membership to get him to heaven. But for the last couple of weeks he had dreamed about going to heaven and not getting in. He "was introduced to The Gate. Jesus said in John 14:6 " I am the Way, the Truth , and the Life, no man cometh to the Father except by me." I pray that if any of you don't know Jesus as your Savior that you will soon come to know Him.
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,"
From the room far back a gray bearded 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 Masters' Hand.
Myra Brooks Welch