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The Poem

On His Blindness When I consider how my light is spent,Ere half my days in the dark world and wide,And that Talent which is death to hideLodged with me useless, though my soul more bent’To serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest he returning chide;“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”I fondly ask. But Patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies, “God doth...

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