Sonnet Xxviii. Submission In Sickness Poem by Thomas Cogswell Upham

God gives to each his task; but what is mine?
What work doth he require of one like me?
Who, grieving, on the couch of sickness pine,
And know no hours but those of misery.
By others I am tended. Would I go
To feed the poor, or unto heathen lands,
Here am I fastened on this bed of woe,
With feet that walk not, and with moveless hands.
'Twas thus I cherished wicked discontent,
And inly blamed Jehovah's righteous ways,
When suddenly a voice, in mercy sent,
Reproves my striving heart, and gently says:
If thou indeed for nothing else art fit,
This work at least is thine, in patience to submit.