For Those Struggling Out There

I felt impressed this evening to blog about the following poem. I saw a video version of it at church years ago and it has become my favorite short film since. You'll see why. Anyway, I was also impressed to share something personal with you that relates to this. See, there was a period in my life a long time ago where I thought about suicide. I thought life was too hard, no one would miss me, and just plainly wanted the pain to go away. I was blessed though, because my spirit wouldn't allow me to give up. I was able to get professional help. My life turned around further when I became a mormon because I learned a greater understanding of God's love for you and me. In His eyes we're worth saving ... no matter how screwed up we've lead our lives. So in a moment of despair, ask Heavenly Father for help. He saved me and He can save you. --Get your tissues ready ... here goes:


The Touch of the Master’s Hand by Myra B. Welch
It was battered and scarred,And the auctioneer thought itHardly worth his whileTo 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 grey haired manCame forward and picked up the bow,Then wiping the dust from the old violinAnd tightening up the strings,He played a melody, pure and sweet,As sweet as the angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneerWith 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 with bourbon and gin,Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowdMuch 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 wroughtBy the Touch of the Master’s Hand.