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:
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