On His Blindess

by John Milton

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. 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."

I stand and wait, and You ordain repulsion and rejection. I bear your mild yoke, and the offering goes up in flames. Is this the suffering You have ordained for me: useless gifts, mockery of weakness, and watching bright-eyed Others flying on the breath of your pleasure? This is no mild yoke. It is slow suffocation.

Behold, my servant shall prosper;
he shall be high and lifted up,
and shall be exalted.
As many were astonished at you—
his appearance was so marred, beyond human semblance,
and his form beyond that of the children of mankind—
so shall he startle many nations;
kings shall shut their mouths because of him;
for that which has not been told them they see,
and that which they have not heard they understand.1


Patience, my child.


1 Isaiah 52:13-15, ESV