Its strings broken or loose, its pegs run down,
Could ever be of use again. The dust

Of years lay on its shabby case until
One day a Master took the instrument,

And with caressing fingers touched the wood,
Adjusted pegs and strings; his mind intent

On making music as he drew his bow.
Then from the violin, long silent, sprang

Once more arpeggios, runs, trills. The wood
Quivered, leapt into life, and joyous sang.

I now believe that any broken life
Jangling with discords, unadjusted, tossed

In some far corner, wasted, thrown aside,
Can yet be of some use; need not be lost

From Heaven's orchestra. A Master's Hand
Scarred with old wounds, can mend the broken thing

If yielded to Him wholly; and can make
The dumb life speak again, and joyous sing

In praise of One Who gave His life that none
Need perish. And this message, glad, most blest,

I now believe; for placing in His Hand
My life, I find my world is now at rest.