Please take a moment to read this humble poem and reflect. What bridges have you built in your life?

The Bridge Builder

“An old man, going a lone highway,
Came, at the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast, and deep, and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.

The old man crossed in the twilight dim;
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned, when safe on the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.

“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim, near,
“You are wasting strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again will pass this way;
You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide-
Why build you this bridge at the evening tide?”

The builder lifted his old gray head:
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,
“There followeth after me today,
A youth, whose feet must pass this way.

This chasm, that has been naught to me,
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.”

The Bridge Builder is a poem written by Will Allen Dromgoole around the turn of the 20th Century. This poem is used by many fraternal societies to teach the importance of building for future generations. In fact, this poem was extensively used by my college fraternity and I have heard it used during additional lectures of masonic ritual.

THE TOUCH OF THE MASTER’S HAND
by Myra Brooks Welch, 1926

“Twas battered and scared, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin
But he held it up with a smile.
“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried.
“Who’ll start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar…now who’ll make it 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 gray 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 and low
Said. “What am I bidden for the old violin?”
And he held it up with the bow.
“A thousand dollars—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 its worth?” Swift came the reply:
“The touch of a master’s hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and torn with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He’s going once, and going twice—
He’s going—and almost gone!
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul, and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.