Sonnet On His Blindness


When I consider how my  light is spent Ere half my days,
in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent,
which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless,
though my soul more bent to serve with my Maker,
and present my true account,
lest He, returning, chide:
“Doth God exact day labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent that murmur,
soon replies; “God doth not need Either man’s work,
or His own gifts;
who best Bear His milk yoke,
the serve Him best.
His state is kingly.
Thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

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