The Touch of the Master's Hand
You have read that simple, moving poem by Myra Brooks Welch titled, The Touch of the Master's Hand. An old dusty violin is being auctioned. How much will you bid this violin for asks the auctioneer. One dollar? Two dollars?Three...? At that stage an old man, who was sitting far back in the room, gets up and walks up to the auctioneer, takes the violin and plays a divine melody. The audience is mesmerized. The auctioneer resumes ... Now, how much will you bid this violin for?? A thousand dollars??? Two thousand??? Three thousand....??
We are, the poet implies, like that violin. We do not know our real worth. We fail to do justice ourselves. The music of our life is remain unsung. And it is waiting to be played. You don't need some old man from nowhere to come and pluck the strings of your life. You can do it yourself.