A Voice for a Silent Violin

I enjoyed the afternoon as greeter at the Museum of the Alphabet. Of course, much for me to see and do, and it will require many more hours to "soak" up the information.

I brought home one poignant memory: A Voice for a Silent Violin (a brochure) and the poem titled The Master. The poem is similar to The Touch of the Master's Hand (a favorite of mine). I thought I would find the poem if I did a Google, or Bing, search. "No." So I've had to copy the poem from my picture (a labor of love).

The Master

Unlearned and naive in the arts
Of cultures not his own,
To jungle village far away
An Indian all unknown.

Caught but a transitory glance
Of something which inspired
An effort of creative skill
So that his soul was fired.

To reproduce as best he could
From memory so keen
An instrument as delicate
As that which he had seen.

His only tools were rough and crude
A knife with broken blade,
Two worn-out chisels, and some wood
From nearby forest glade.

With loving care he shaped that wood
With delicate precision,
Then polished it until it shone
Reflecting his own vision.

And there it was to his delight
An instrument so rare
In its perfection and its grace
A violin most fair.

Beautiful in its design
But still quite incomplete,
One thing lacking--not a sound
Would its poor strings repeat.

A friend who loved its shapely form
Then placed it on her wall
Where it stayed voiceless, silent, mute,
Admired by one and all.

Until one day a visitor
Was shown the violin.
He tuned the strings which had been placed
Where jungle vines had been.

Then from the tiny violin
Came strains of melody
As delicate in quality
As airy rhapsody.

He played on and the crowd was hushed
Enraptured by the sound
Straining to catch each quivering note
The master's hand had found.

The violin went mute and still
No message could impart
Nor fill the air with music sweet
To stir and lift one's heart.

It needed the touch of the master's hand
In order to be fulfilled
The end for which it was first made
To be with music filled.

Let us then yield into God's hands
Our lives so incomplete
That He may fill our hearts with song
And make our joy complete.

A Bible gold and leather bound
While handsome on the shelf
May well stay voiceless, silent, mute,
Unless one gives himself

To diligent, painstaking work
In learning sounds and speech
Of tribes remote who have no Word
Through which the Lord can reach.

Those with a message of His love
Who never yet have heard
Because no sound has reached them yet
From God's eternal Word.

Written by Mary Stateler

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Postscript: If you copy this poem please give credit to the author and to the JAARS Museum of the Alphabet, Waxhaw, North Carolina, USA. I could not find the author, or the poem, on the Internet 6/04/2011.
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