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,

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;