Lay Waste To My Own Dark Wastelands Poem by Mark Heathcote

I have no rest on the sea or the mainland
Although I've asked 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 outstretched 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 free hand
But mortals like I need His commands!
As the years, days, hours, and minutes disband.

As the farmer 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 dark wastelands.