Playing an Old Instrument

I touch these notes;
I strum these chords,
and know that hands before
mine, ever heard tones come forth,
deftly ordered, plucked, voice sang,
brought comfort, thrill, and more.

I'll not compare nor strive to pass,
that which was heard and dear,
nor make the blessed tone seem crass,
their purpose kind and clear.

So, should the notes that proceed forth,
happen to touch a heart,
It's thankfulness for trace of worth,
that I have shared a part.

So, music comes, though basic be,
from strum and pause and stress,
a touch, a note that comes of me,
may it, its purpose bless.