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The Prodigal Son by Rembrandt

On His Blindness
by John Milton (1608-1674)


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 labor, light denied?" 
I fondly ask; by 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." 

(Note: by 1662 Milton was completely blind.)


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(c) 2001 Don Schwager