(Matt. XXV. 18)
In a napkin smooth and white,
Hidden from all mortal sight,
My one talent lies to-night.
Mine to hoard, or mine to use;
Mine to keep, or mine to lose;
May I not do what I choose?
Ah! the gift was only lent
With the Giver's known intent
That it should be wisely spent.
And I know he will demand
Every farthing at my hand,
When I in his presence stand.
What will be my grief and shame
When I hear my humble name
And cannot repay his claim!
One poor talent--nothing more!
All the years that have gone o'er
Have not added to the store.
Some will double what they hold,
Others add to it tenfold
And pay back the shining gold.
Would that I had toiled like them!
All my sloth I now condemn;
Guilty fears my soul o'erwhelm.
Lord, oh teach me what to do.
Make me faithful, make me true,
And the sacred trust renew.
Help me, ere too late it be,
Something yet to do for Thee,
Thou who hast done all for me.
Art thou little? Do thy little well;
And for thy comfort know
Great men can do their greatest work
No better than just so.
--Johann W. von Goethe.