On His Blindness Poem by vivian fabregas

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 there with my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
'Doth God exact day-labor, light denied? ''
I fondly asked, but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, 'God doeth not need
Either man's work and his own gifts, who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kindly: Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'