A battered violin sits on an auction block, dust-caked and sagging, worth a few measly dollars to a crowd of strangers. Jimmy D. paints a picture of a life out of tune, a soul treated like a cheap piece of junk.
He speaks of the wreckage—the mess of pottage, the glass of wine, the gamble that leaves a man almost gone. He is the instrument with drooping strings, scarred and dismissed by the thoughtless crowd. Then comes the shift.
A Master’s hand wipes away the grime and tunes the strings, transforming a piece of scrap into something that commands a thousand-dollar price. It is a grit-to-glory account of how a Higher Power reaches into the auction pile of broken men to find the music still hiding under the scars. No longer a bargain-bin tragedy, the speaker finds his value not in his own wreckage, but in the hand that restores the melody.
It was battered and scarred and the auctioneer thought it was hardly worth his while to waste much time on this old violin but he held it up with a smile he said uh what am i offered good folks what am I offered who'll start the bidding for...
It was battered and scarred and the auctioneer thought it was hardly worth his while to waste much time on this old violin but he held it up with a smile he said uh what am i offered good folks what am I offered who'll start the bidding for me a dollar got a dollar two dollars two dollars. Who'll make it three? Three dollars once, three dollars twice, but no. From the back of the room a gray-haired man came forward and he picked up the sagging bow and he wiped the dust from the old violin and tuning up the drooping strings he played a melody as pure and as sweet as carolyn angels could sing well the music stopped and the auctioneer with a voice quiet and low said what am I bid for this old violin and he held it up with the bow a thousand dollars who'll make it two two thousand we'll make it three it's 3,000 once it's 3000 twice and it's going and gone said Some people cheered and some of them cried We don't quite understand what changed its worth Then someone replied it was the touch of the Master's hand So many men with a life out of tune And battered and scarred with sin They're often cheap to the thoughtless crowd Much like that old violin A mess of pottage, a glass of wine A game and he travels on He's going once, he's going twice He's gone and he's almost gone But the master comes And the foolish crowd can never quite understand The worth of soul and the change that is wrought By the touch of the Master's hand. Thank you.
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