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‘Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer thought
it was hardly worth his while
to waste much time with the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.
“Give me a dollar, and who’ll make it two?
Only two dollars…Who’ll make it three?
Three dollars twice and that’s a good price,
but who’s got a bid for me?
The air was hot and the people just stood
as the sun was setting low.
Then from the back of the crowd a gray-haired man
came forward and picked up the bow.
He wiped the dust from the old violin,
and he tightened up the strings.
Then he played out a melody,
pure and sweet as the angels sing.
The music ended and the auctioneer,
with a voice that was quiet and low,
said “what is my bid for the old violin?”,
and he held it up with the bow.
“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?
Only two thousand, who’ll make it three?”
Three thousand twice, that’s a good price,
but who’s got a bid for me?”
And the people called out, “what made the change?
We don’t understand.”
So the auctioneer stopped and said with a smile,
“’twas the touch of the master’s hand.”
Now many a man and his life out of tune
is battered and scarred with sin.
And he’s auctioned cheap to a thankless world,
much like the old violin.
But then the master comes and the foolish crowd,
they never understand
the worth of a soul or the change that is wrought
by the touch of the master’s hand.
“The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried:
“Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin:
but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!
‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
‘Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
”These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.
“the ill-timed truth we might have kept-
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say-
Who knows how grandly it had rung?
“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
the chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunder-oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”
The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”
Perfect Woman's Car
