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

The School Where Jesus Trod

And it came to pass, as I journeyed through the gates thereof,  

I lifted up mine eyes, and behold, a place of peace.  

For the principal walked in the midst of the young,  

Speaking kindly unto them, as a shepherd among his flock.  

And the staff, with gladness of heart, greeted one another;  

They inquired after the welfare of their brethren,  

And they bare one another’s burdens,  

And lifted holy hands in prayer without ceasing.  

And the teachers ministered unto the children,  

Not in knowledge alone, but in spirit and in truth.  

They tended the souls committed unto them, 

Strengthening the weak, guiding the eager,  

And teaching with diligence, as stewards of a sacred trust.  

And the students rejoiced before the Lord;  

Their countenances were bright, and their hearts were steadfast.  

For they beheld a vision of excellence,  

And ran their race with patience,  

Knowing that character is the path,  

And Christ the Everlasting Light upon it.  

Thus was Christ in the midst of them,  

Even as the pillar of fire in the wilderness.  

And all things were done unto His glory;  

For excellence was their measure,  

And righteousness their crown.  

And I departed from thence with wonder in my soul,  

Saying, "Surely the Lord hath sanctified this place;  

Surely His hand is upon this people;  

And His praise shall be in their midst for evermore."

6/2/2026 (written in KJV style) 

The Cross We Carry

It is no sculpted timber raised against the sky,  

No monument of stone that time will calcify;  

The cross of Christ is nearer,

a weight against the bone,  

A truth that settles in the flesh  

when we must walk alone.  

It rests upon the heart in nights of aching loss,  

When graves are freshly dug  

and love bears winter’s cost.  

In bereavement’s hollow silence,  

when tears refuse to cease,  

His cross becomes our company,  

His wounds our borrowed peace.  

It presses on the body when pain will not relent,  

When breath is thin with suffering  

and strength feels nearly spent.  

For He too bore the torment  

that tore through nerve and vein;  

We find Him in our weakness,  

a fellowship of pain.  

It shadows us in moments  

when loved ones turned away,  

When rejection’s bitter sentence  

is all they choose to say.  

For Christ was left deserted,  

betrayed by those He knew;  

The cross becomes our shelter  

when hatred’s arrows flew.  

So let the world keep symbols  

of polished, distant grace,

The Christian bears a cross  

that time cannot erase.  

Held close against the body,  

engraved in soul and scar,  

It binds our wounds to Jesus’ wounds,  

and makes His suffering ours.  

Mark Humber 4/2/26

The Midnight Cry

A whisper stirs the dark, then rises like a flame:  

“Awake, you slumbering ones - the Bridegroom calls your name.”

The heavens hold their breath; the earth begins to sigh,  

For judgment walks the night when sounds the midnight cry.  

The days of Noah speak, their warning still alive,

A world absorbed in ease, yet doomed when floods arrive.  

So now the signs align; the hour draws swiftly near,  

And those who mock the truth will tremble when they hear.  

The trumpet soon will break the veil of mortal air;  

The Lord stands in the clouds, His glory to declare.  

The righteous rise in joy, the faithless shrink in dread,

For every secret thought is weighed and swiftly read.  

O people, heed the call - let hearts be trimmed with light;  

Cast off the works of dusk, walk sober in the night.  

The cry will split the skies, no moment to deny,

Be ready for the King, when comes the midnight cry.  

Mark Humber 4/2/2026

Have a God New Year

I. In the Valley of Shadows

When sorrow veils the morning light,

And tears like rivers freely flow,

When prayers are groans in deepest night,

And hope lies buried deep below—

Then Christ, the Man of Sorrows, near,

Draws close to catch the falling tear.

He bore our griefs, our pain He knew,

And walks the midnight valley too.

(Psalm 23:4)

II. In the Dance of Joy

When laughter rings and hearts arise,

And blessings bloom like springtime rain,

Let songs ascend to sapphire skies,

For grace has triumphed over pain.

The Lord song, our shield,

Has sown His joy in every field.

Rejoice! For Christ, our risen King,

Has tuned our hearts anew to sing.

(Psalm 30:11)

III. In the Fog of Uncertainty

When paths grow dim and stars are veiled,

And questions crowd the weary mind,

When every plan seems weak or failed,

And faith is all we’ve left to find—

The Spirit whispers, “Peace, be still,”

And bends our will to match His will.

He leads through storms with unseen hand,

And sets our feet on solid land.

(Proverbs 3:5)

V. In God’s Waiting Room

When answers tarry, slow to come,

And time drips down like winter rain,

When prayers return in silence, numb,

And patience wears beneath the strain—

Still wait, O soul, upon the Lord,

His promises are not ignored.

The Comforter is near, not far,

A guiding light, a morning star.

(Psalm 130:5)

V. In the Hope of the Cross

O year anew, with pages white,

We write with ink of faith, not fear.

For Christ has conquered death and night—

His mercy crowns the dawning year.

He is our Saviour, strong and kind,

Our Healer of both heart and mind.

Our Friend who walks each step we take,

Whose love no trial can ever shake.

(Hebrews 13:8)

VI. In The Spirit’s Power – a Benediction

So lift your eyes, O child of grace,

The road ahead is not unknown.

The Spirit walks at mercy’s pace,

And you shall never walk alone.

In joy or grief, in peace or strife,

He breathes in you the breath of life.

So let this year, through every sphere,

Be crowned with God—A God New Year.

(Romans 15:13)

 Mark Humber 1 January 2026

Sonnet to The Light in the Darkness

In shadowed lands where truth is bought and sold,

Where thrones are built on lies and fleeting gain,

The hearts of men grow callous, dark, and cold,

And virtue bleeds beneath ambition’s chain.

The sacred vows are broken without shame,

The streets run red with envy’s bitter cost,

The holy name is mocked, denied, profaned—

A world adrift, unanchored, tempest-tossed.

Yet in the storm, a stillness calls us near:

A thorn-crowned King with mercy in His eyes.

He bore our guilt, our violence, lust, and fear,

And rose with healing light that never dies.

Though kingdoms fall and every idol rusts,

The cross still stands—our refuge and our trust.

So turn, O soul, from ruin and regret;

The Shepherd seeks the lost with wounded hands.

No sin too deep, no heart He won’t reset,

No grave so dark His love can’t light the lands.

Let rebels kneel, let prodigals arise—

For Christ alone makes dead men truly wise.

Mark Humber 30 December 2025

PERHAPS TODAY

Perhaps today the toil ends,

The pain is gone, the sorrow too.
Perhaps today I'll tread no more
This weary land down here with you.

Perhaps today this Time shall cease,
And I will reach Eternity,
Perhaps today the unseen God
Is seen in Jesus' face by me.

Perhaps today all trouble ends,
And every eye who loves Him sees
Their Lord of Hope shine through the clouds,
And hears the trumpet's jubilee.

Perhaps today on eagles' wings
We rise to meet Him in the air.
Perhaps today He wipes each tear,
And we shall meet again up there.

Mark Humber 31/05/2025

Dedicated to the memory of the late Leon Smith and his wife Jean Smith. This image was on the wall of their home, where I lived for some time and we often discussed it. I found it online in low resolution and enhanced it.