Contributed by Dan Renshaw
There is a fine old instrument,
Joust two simple strings.
Beautifully hand-crafted
Yet common, with engraftment
Wood, some glue; all earthly things.
A most complete and pleasant work,
To cause eye and soul elation.
Lovingly preserved,
Protected, reserved,
A marvel of design and creation.
When in tune, performance is given,
By the Master with consummate skill.
Wonder, there be,
Only two strings to see,
Yet such music, a grand hall to fill.
A sound so desired; pleasing and perfect,
Descends, here below we receive.
Such melody,
A symphony,
In reverie our hearts do conceive.
Each set of new strings create problems.
Great effort, until harmony restored.
One resistant to touch,
The other plaint too much,
Such patience! By lesser deplored.
For which one is right and so proper;
Which one is to blame for discord?
Perplexity in each,
Whom first to teach,
Such exertion Gentile hands can afford.
So each is touched in a merciful way,
Treating both as if one, and full equal.
Small variance provided,
Then harmonic excited,
And one made the other’s true sequel.
With attention received, both then yielding,
From each string, such sweet sound sedate.
This stretching illusive,
Once thought abusive,
Just learning true needs of one’s mate.
Is conflict inevitable? So very regrettable!
He tunes in a process oft repeated.
Old expectations erased,
Self-centeredness replaced,
‘Til dissension be finally defeated.
With passage of time both sing softer now, so mellow
Exquisite and poignant; divine.
Move closer and sigh,
Listen quietly, don’t deny,
‘Tis the breaking of your heart and mine.
Oh, there is a fine old instrument,
Of just two mortal strings.
Long may it give,
This love song we live,
So useful to the Master of things.
