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 therewith my Maker, and present

   My true account, least 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. Thusands at his bidding speed,

And posto'er land and ocean  without rest:

   They also serve who only stad and waite