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.' |