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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 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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