HIMSELF by A.B. Simpson

HIMSELF

by A.B. Simpson

Once it was the blessing, Now it is the Lord;
Once it was the feeling, Now it is His Word.
Once His gifts I wanted, Now the Giver own;
Once I sought for healing, Now Himself alone.

Once ’twas painful trying, Now ’tis perfect trust;
Once a half salvation, Now the uttermost.
Once ’twas ceaseless holding, Now He holds me fast;
Once ’twas constant drifting, Now my anchor’s cast.

Once ’twas busy planning, Now ’tis trustful prayer;
Once ’twas anxious caring, Now He has the care.
Once ’twas what I wanted, Now what Jesus says;
Once ’twas constant asking, Now ’tis ceaseless praise.

Once it was my working, His it hence shall be;
Once I tried to use Him, Now He uses me.
Once the power I wanted, Now the Mighty One;
Once for self I labored, Now for Him alone.

Once I hoped in Jesus, Now I know He’s mine;
Once my lamps were dying, Now they brightly shine.
Once for death I waited, Now His coming hail;
And my hopes are anchored, Safe within the veil.

The Touch Of The Master’s Hand

’Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
“What am I bidden, good folk?” 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?
“Going for three”—but no—
From the room far back, a gray-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, “Now 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,” cried he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
“We do not understand.
“What changed its worth?” Quick 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 a 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’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.

By Myra Brooks