Redemption for the Master’s Hand

The Touch of the Masters Hand

'Twas 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 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 and bruised with hardship

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, 1921

Redemption for the Master’s Hand

(Inspired by the above poem, written more than 100 years ago)

Narration/alternate singer in normal font; italics to the tune of "The Gambler

He stood at the window of the pawn shop door, 

Watching the dust on the case he once bore, 

The instrument silent, its glory long gone, 

A relic of worship he’d traded at dawn.

For years he had played in the house of the Lord, 

Till wounds from his brethren cut deep as a sword; 

Rejection and whispers, betrayal and blame,

Had smothered his music and hollowed his flame.

 

“You know, I used to play in worship, 

'Fore the hurt and all the heartache, 

But the wounds ran so much deeper 

Than the songs I used to sing. 

So I laid my music downwards, 

Left my calling in the shadows, 

And I walked away from worship, 

With a bitter, broken string.”

 

So bitter and broken, he carried it in,

The last of his worship, the weight of his sin. 

“Just give what you can,” he had muttered that day, 

And walked out in silence, so full of dismay.

The shopkeeper placed it with others in line,

A tarnished old treasure no longer divine. 

Its strings had grown brittle, its polish grown pale, 

Its voice, once a psalm, now a sorrowful tale.

 

“So, I pawned the gift He gave me, 

For a handful of survival, 

Never thought that I would ever 

Hear its voice or feel its frame. 

But it sits there on the counter, 

Just a memory of my sorrow, 

And I wonder if redemption 

Could restore what I became.”

 

Then one quiet morning, a stranger stepped in, 

His eyes on the instrument pawned for a sin. 

He lifted it gently, examined each scar, 

And whispered, “This beauty is worth more by far.”

“How much for this one?” The shopkeeper frowned. 

“It’s worthless to most, just a few battered pounds.” 

But the stranger laid down a far greater sum, 

As though he knew fully what it would become.

 

He said, “I used to play in worship, 

'Fore the hurt and all the heartache, 

But the wounds ran so much deeper 

Than the songs he used to sing. 

So he laid his music downwards, 

Left his calling in the shadows, 

And he walked away from worship, 

With a bitter, broken string.”

 

He carried it out to the light of the street, 

And sought the musician with weary, worn feet. 

“I bought back your instrument—take it,” he said. 

“Its purpose is waiting; its song is not dead.”

The man took the case with a trembling hand, 

His heart overwhelmed by a grace he’d not planned. 

The bitterness melted, the years fell away, 

As mercy restored what he’d thrown in dismay.

 

Then a stranger stepped beside me, 

Laid the payment on the table, 

Said, “I know the cost is heavy, 

But the worth is more than gold.” 

And he placed the case before me, 

Said, “The Master still can use you, 

For the One who buys you back again 

Is the One who makes you whole.”

 

He tightened the strings with a reverent fear, 

And music awakened he thought he’d not hear. 

A melody rose like a prayer from the dust, 

Redemption resounding in notes shaped by trust.

And those who had known him all wondered again 

What changed the musician, once wounded by men. 

The answer was simple, though few understand: 

The fruit of redemption, by the Master’s own hand.

 

Now I lift the song of mercy, 

For the grace that came to find me, 

And the music He restored now 

Is a fire within my hands. 

All the bitterness has melted, 

In the light of His compassion, 

For the glory of redemption

Is the touch of the Master’s hand.

Mark Humber, 6/3/2026