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
Lodg'd with me useless,
though my soul more bent
To serve therewith 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 mild yoke, they
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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