Lay waste to my own dark wastelands

I have no rest on sea or mainland…
Although I’ve ask for, His helping hand
As yet I’ve no rest in His right-hand
Not a plaintive second less fanned.

But with faith, and an out stretched hand
Foundations have I raised upland
So I’ll affirm; I’ll pray they’ll withstand.
Those deepest pitfalls into quicksand:

Here the house ill reputed soul bandstands.
On this a freehold - with a freehand!
But mortals like I need His commands!
As the years day’s hour’s minutes disband…

As the framer takes to his farmlands
I’ll lift my cobalt pen wet from the inkstand
And take to these white fields these grasslands
And lay waste to my own dark wastelands.