On His Blindness, by John Milton

Lent, Day 27

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-labour, 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.'

As the commentary says, "The poet is not in fact the only mouthpiece of the divine, however much he feels called to be just that." The tiny robin does not fret because he can't speak words or cook chicken jalfrezi; he just does what he does with all his heart - and how he cheers anyone who hears him.

Seven of us went to scatter my Mum's ashes today - a rather surreal experience - I think prescribed rituals are needed at times like this - and we know none. Still, it feels better that we did it, rather than some stranger.