The Master Violinist walked to the stage. Under
the single spotlight, he moved, and opened the
black case next to Him. From rich velvet, He
withdrew a Stradivarius -- the most valuable
and beloved of all the violins.
He played Concerto 1 -- louder and louder,
faster and faster, so many notes, and then
ended on a triumphant set of chords, triple
playing three strings again and again. The
audience applauded wildly! The Master Violinist
bowed to the crowds.
But then, the Master Violinist stopped bowing.
He seemed to spy something. He set the Strad
aside, and walked to the side steps of the stage.
He walked down g the steps, and then into the
audience, with an enormous smile that He hid
from no one.
The Master walked over to a very young girl,
and whispered something to her. She nodded,
and pointed to the black case by her seat. He
took the case... and then, He returned to the
center of the stage, carrying the black case of
the young girl.
Under the same spotlight, the audience watched
the Master open this other torn and beaten
black case. The audience shook their heads in
dismay as the Master pulled out from the girl's
case, a school-house violin.
Its varnish was worn and even some scratches
were viewable from the front rows. Its strings
were dull looking. Surely, thought many, the
Master will lecture us on how worthless this
violin is -- torn, tampered with, abused, and
ready to be cast aside.
But the Master held out the violin for all to see,
and smiled all the more. He placed the violin
under His chin, and whispered (as if talking to
dead wood), "Peace, be still."
With His own bow, He spirited rosin quickly to
the coarse hairs, set down the rosin, and then
struck each string. In moments, the worthless
violin was tuned by gentle hands. The audience
stared! He could not... no, they thought, He
must not play such a thing!?!
But the Master closed His eyes, and began to
pour His strength into that bow... and the
strings, began to sound. The Master played
slowly, lovingly, searching out for the strengths
and weakness of tone on each string - it was a
simple scale. And then a faster scale. And then,
a complete scale of octaves and overtones, as
the Master memorized the correct position for
every best tone on every note at every octave.
And then, and then, He began to play Concerto
2. The first movement began with a gypsy
ballad, as if the Master were calling a lost lover
home to His arms. The eyes of some in the
audience began to glisten and some swallowed
hard with memories. But then, in the second
movement, the concerto rose, higher and higher
in pitch and softer and softer in sound, as if
reaching out to someone in prayer; and then
ended with the softest note... the most pleading
note...pulling on the heart strings of an unseen
Then, it began. The third... movement... in
pace... in time... the clap... the stomp... the
move... of dance! And dance the Master did!
Turning on the stage! Never stopping in His
playing! All the audience clapped in time!
Again... again... again... again!
When the last note ended! When the last sound
cleared the air! It was done! It was finished!
And all the crowd went silent... and then began
to chant "Worthy! Worthy! Worthy is the
Master of All!" And the clapping and shouting of
praise became like the sound of mighty river,
crashing down from a cliff into the falls below!
Yes, all the praise went to the Master at the end
of the first Concerto, for even a Strad cannot
make music without Him. But all the glory went
to the Master at the end of the second Concerto,
for He made music from the least of all
May God let us be like that school-house violin,
and have the vision to yield our lives -- torn,
tampered with, abused, and ready to be cast
aside -- to the Master Violinist. For when He
plays upon that which is worthless, the audience
will praise Him all the more.
Much love in Christ, always; Caryn
(c) Copyright Caryn LeMur 2006
|The Collection of Short Works,
Letters, and Poems
The Master Violinist
A member of the yahoo group,
TG-Christians, wrote of the
struggles in her life.
I wrote how she was an
inspiration to me, and somehow,
my compliment broke her into
It seemed that more was
needed... so that she would see
that she was indeed an inspiration
despite all that happened in her
I prayed, "give me healing
words", and wrote this
composition for her.
Again, I think Jesus just wanted
her to know how He perceived the
situation, don't you?
|In Deepest Sympathy -
Poetry for those that grieve
|Building Faith, Hope, & Love -
Stories and Writings
|A Cup Of Cold Water -
Letters For The Thirsty
|A Pause In The Forest -
Poetry for thoughtful moments