Ole Bull, the world’s most noted violinist, was ever wandering about. One day he became lost in the interminable forests. In the dark of the night he stumbled against a log hut, the home of a hermit. The old man took him in, fed and warmed him; after the supper they sat in front of a blazing fireplace, and the old hermit picked some crude tunes on his screechy, battered violin.

Ole Bull said to the hermit, “Do you think I could play on that?” “I don’t think so; it took me years to learn,” the old hermit replied. Ole Bull said, “Let me try it.”

He took the old marred violin and drew the bow across the strings, and suddenly the hermit’s hut was filled with music Divine; and, according to the story, the hermit sobbed like a child.

We are battered instruments; life’s strings have been snapped; life’s bow has been bent. Yet, if we will only let Him take us and touch us, from this old battered, broken, shattered, marred instrument, He will bring forth music fit for the angels.

I never knew the old, brown violin, That was so long in some dark corner thrust, 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.