About a hundred years ago there occurred a touching scene in a beautiful park. In this park there might have been observed an aged soldier, a veteran of many a battle, seated on an improvised bench, while near him sat a little poodle dog on his haunches, holding in its mouth the tattered hat of his master, serving as a temporary receptacle to receive what charitable people might cast in. The ex-soldier’s meager pension did not suffice for his bodily needs, and so he had obtained an old fiddle which he loved tenderly. It was scratchy, and the best he could offer the public was very poor.
This particular day nobody took any notice of him, and so, very few coppers found their way into the open hat held firm by the little creature. The old man got discouraged, and stroking his pet affectionately, he said to him,
“Ah! Poodle, there will be no bone for you tonight!”
While thus speaking, the tears flowed from his eyes, down his cheeks, for he was not able to check them.
The poodle began to whine. Just then a gentleman who was standing behind him, having watched him, stepped close up to the old man, asking for the loan of his old fiddle for a little while. Striking the strings and adjusting them, he soon brought the old thing to somewhat normal condition; then he began to draw from it such sweet chords, that the people passing by were arrested, and seeing the old veteran with the poodle holding the hat, began to appreciate the situation, and so the hat was filled more than twice.
But the old man did not heed the money flowing into the hat; the fiddle, his dear fiddle was a miracle to him. How could that stranger draw such exquisite strains from that old fiddle of his? Ah! it was a master that had gotten hold of it; a master violinist, one of the greatest of musicians, that was the secret. Kind hearted as he was, he appeared so suddenly, and then, when his wish was accomplished, he vanished as suddenly among the bushes, after laying the old, but beloved fiddle into the veteran’s lap.
Then a gentleman who had witnessed this touching scene, told the large audience who this violinist was. He passed the hat around, and this time it was filled to the brim, so that the old veteran had enough with that he already had received, to last him to the end of his days. Hugging his fiddle and stroking the poodle, he went home to his attic room, with more than one bone for his little pet.
Beloved, are not our hearts like that old fiddle? How little there is for the Lord! Are you making melody in your hearts to Him?
Now He praiseth in the assembly,
Now the sorrow all is passed;
Yes, He praises! grace recounting
All the path already trod.
Join the singing that He leadeth,
Loud to God our voices raise;
It is finished! It is finished!
Who can tell redemption’s worth!
He who knows it, leads the singing,
Full the joy, as fierce the wrath.
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O Lord, we know it matters not
How sweet the song may be;
No heart but by the Spirit taught
Makes melody to Thee.
Then teach Thy gathered saints, O Lord
To worship in Thy fear;
And let Thy grace mold every word
That meets Thy holy ear.
O largely give, ‘tis all Thine own,
The Spirit’s goodly fruit,
Praise issuing forth in life, alone
Our loving Lord can suit.
Beloved, unless the Chief Singer vibrates our heart strings, there will be nothing for Him, and He is so worthy, and longs for it, even from our poor hearts. Are we able? Yes, indeed. Our hearts purified by faith, indwelt by the Holy Ghost, and He, our beloved Lord, leading the singing, we are well able to praise Him, even in the midnight, singing songs unto the Chief Musician.