When I consider how my life 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 labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask, but patience to prevent
That mummer, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work of His own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly. Thoughts at His bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean, without rest.
They also serve who only stand and wait."
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