Fiddles
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Texas Fiddle
Rod Nichols (c) 2003, used by permission.
That fiddle came from ol' Virgin'
of maple wood and pine.
I guess it were the very best
for that there place and time.
It made its way to Texas, then,
and underwent a change.
It had to be repaired a bit;
the rough trip was to blame.
Now, I don't know what wood was used
to mend that fiddle, see.
Some say it was a laurel, boys,
and some, a dogwood tree.
I only know when it were done,
an angel was around:
cause when that bow had crossed them strings,
there came a wondrous sound.
Twas like the Good Lord gave to it
a voice unlike the rest.
A fiddle made with Texas wood,
whose birth was surely blessed.
Fer reels tweren't no comparison;
that fiddle, boys, was boss,
and oft at church was called upon
to reach out to the lost.
There never was a fiddle, yet,
could equal it, fer sure.
It had a voice could sing a song
melodic, clear and pure.
I read about a fiddle, once,
touched by the Master's hand.
To hear that Texas fiddle play,
I think I understand.
The Good Lord works in wondrous ways,
as oft we have been told.
He took a wooden fiddle, boys,
and turned its worth to gold.
I pray He'll do the same fer us,
as fer that fiddle, fair,
and turn us into instruments,
His glory to declare.
"The Touch of the Master's Hand"
by Myra Brooks Welch
T'was battered and scarred and the auctioneer,
Thought it scarcely worth his while.
To waste much time on the old violin,
but held it up with a smile.
"What am I bid, good folks " he cried,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar then, "Two!" Only two? two dollars,
and who'll make it three?"
"Three dollars, once Three dollars twice,
going for three, But no.
From the room far back, a grey haired man,
came forward and picked up the bow.
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
and tightening the loose strings.
He played a melody pure and sweet,
as a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer,
with a voice that was quite low,
Said: "What am I bid for the old violin?"
and 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" said he.
The people cheered but some of them cried,
"we do not quite understand,
What changed it's worth?," Swift came the reply,
"The Touch of the Masters Hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
and battered and scarred with sin.
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
much like the old violin.
A "mess of pottage a glass of wine,
a game" And he travels on.
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 changes that wrought,
by "The Touch of the Masters Hand."
Old Rugged Cross
by Rod Nichols, used by permission.
My life's been blessed across the years
with mem'ries I recall.
While some were shared by lots of folks,
the best were often small,
Like rollin' waves of prairie grass
when wind was blowin' free,
a simple hymn by fiddle played
that touched the heart of me.
I've heard a lot of fiddles played
at socials, dance or fests,
and no one has a better time
at fiddle-prize contests.
But on my oath I swear to you
just one I'd count as loss,
had I not heard that fiddler play
the sweet "Old Rugged Cross."
It weren't a church or gatherin';
a cowboy stood alone.
He didn't know that I was there.
just played that precious song.
I guess that was his special way
of prayin' to the Lord,
but when his fiddle raised its voice
I had to swallow hard.
Each note sang softly to my soul
of hills so far away,
where God's own son lay down his life
on Calvary that day.
I've never heard nor ever felt
a hymn so deeply, hoss,
as when that ancient cowboy played
that sweet "Old Rugged Cross."
My life's been blessed across the years
with mem'ries I recall.
While some were shared by lots of folks,
the best were often small,
Like rollin' waves of prairie grass
when wind was blowin' free,
a simple hymn by fiddle played
that touched the heart of me.
The Fiddler
© 2002, Norm Rourke Used by permission
The bow lightly touched the strings,
As the music filled the air,
And the fiddler closed his eyes,
So the melody was clear.
The dancers moved with ease,
Across the smooth plank floor,
While the fiddler played his tune,
The sound went out the door.
The music rose to heaven,
Where God, His ear attuned,
Smiled His affirmation,
For the beauty brought to bloom.
The fiddler finished playing,
Put down his bow and 'lin,
Closed his eyes to rest a while,
For the music had to end.
