- But now, O LORD, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.
- And, behold, two blind men sitting by the way side, when they heard that Jesus passed by, cried out, saying, Have mercy on us, O Lord, thou son of David.
- And the multitude rebuked them, because they should hold their peace: but they cried the more, saying, Have mercy on us, O Lord, thou son of David.
- And Jesus stood still, and called them, and said, What will ye that I shall do unto you?
- They say unto him, Lord, that our eyes may be opened.
- So Jesus had compassion on them, and touched their eyes: and immediately their eyes received sight, and they followed him.
In a day when voices are so many, so loud and shrill, I find the following poem is always worth the while to sit quietly and frequently read now more than ever. I won't speak to all that is upsetting to us in the world at present. You know it all too well! I ask only the following:
- In a throw-away-world, have we lost the true value of the most important things in life?
- Have we disregarded any of those we look upon as likely having no future worth—maybe even ourselves?
- Are we too busy to pause, if just for a moment, to allow something so unexpected that passes our way to touch our soul?
- Have we become so jaded and desensitized by those incessant voices that we no longer see the individual worth of the people and things within each of our worlds?
More Than Ever, Our World Needs Today A Fresh Touch Of The Master's Hand. But as a nation and as a people, those voices of the multitudes have driven Him away.
Imagine the scene about to unfold to the shock of the audience. Sit for a moment in your favorite place and read, observe and listen.
'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 loosened 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?"
And 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."
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine,
A game — and he travels on.
He is "going" once, and "going" twice,
He's "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.
- Myra Brooks Welch
February 26, 1921
This was a poem that Myra Welch proclaimed that she was so moved and filled with the Master's Light it was penned in less than one hour. Feeling it was a gift from God, she offered it anonymously for print in her church's news bulletin. (Written in 1921 and published on February 26, 1921 in the Gospel Messenger)
Crippled by arthritis and unable to play the music she so dearly loved, using nothing but the eraser end of a pencil, she would painfully stroke each letter on a typewriter to produce the songs and poems which were born from the Light in her soul. She is quoted by those who knew her, saying, the joy of her writing outweighed the pain of her efforts. Finally, relegated to a wheelchair in her latter years, she had to give up her joy of playing the organ. But she tediously stroked away with her pencil until going home to be with her Master on August 11, 1959. (Myra Brooks Welch was born in Los Angeles, CA on October 12, 1877.)
Here is just one testimony, besides mine, who find Myra's works a continuing inspiration:
"Heard this in church many years ago, sung by a group of American students.The words are so special, all life is valuable in the Lord's eyes, no matter how sinfully battered a person might be." - Gloria Eliott, March 19, 2019
If you identify as one the poem so eloquently describes, one who was formed by the Creator's hands, can you not hear His calling you back to the Master's Hands to be remolded once again in His image?—transformed in an instant into an instrument that He alone can bring out its best. If hope seems fading, call out to Him. As He has done for countless others, he will do for you! He alone knows your true worth and loves you with an everlasting love.
View the following to learn more about Myra Welch and the works inspired by her:
You may find another more pleasing but which ever it may be, Myra's words continue to touch mine and many other hearts in the years since she has passed. After all, it is as she first desired with her poem, only the Master and the touch of His hands are all that matters and who is the most worthy of our praise.
Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ww_G9_N2-ts
View the full movie: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0208515/
Author: Ken Livingston
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