G.K. Chesterton called it the greatest poem in modern English. If it could be, I think that is an understatement. In its entirety, it contains all of my attraction to the doctrines of grace. I fled the Hound of Heaven, and grace is a story of His pursuit of me, while I ran and hid from Him. Jonathan Edwards could have written it, but just read it first before you worry about who Francis Thompson is. To aid in reading I found a version that gives helps in archaic words if you move your cursor over it, God’s words are in bold (if you want the point of it, you can skip down to the line "and human love" at the last section:
The Hound of Heaven
I fled
Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the
labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up
vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown
Titanic glooms of
chasmèd fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbéd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic
instancy,
They beat—and a Voice beat
More
instant than the Feet—
“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”
I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted
casement, curtained red,
Trellised with intertwining
charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,
Yet was I
sore adreadLest, having Him, I must have
naught beside.)
But, if one little
casement parted wide,
The gust of His approach would clash it to:
Fear
wist not to evade, as Love
wist to pursue.
Across the
margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars:
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports
o’ the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;
With thy young skiey blossoms
heap me overFrom this tremendous Lover—
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
I tempted all His
servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
But whether they swept, smoothly
fleet,
The long
savannahs of the
blue;
Or whether, Thunder-driven,
They clanged his chariot
’thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the
spurn o’ their feet:—
Fear
wist not to evade as Love
wist to pursue.
Still with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbéd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic
instancy,
Came on the following Feet,
And a Voice above their beat—
“Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.”I sought no more that after which I strayed
In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children’s eyes
Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
“Come then, ye other children, Nature’s—share
With me” (said I) “your delicate fellowship;
Let me greet you lip to lip,
Let me twine you with caresses,
Wantoning
With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant
tresses,
Banqueting
With her in her wind-walled palace,
Underneath her
azured dais,
Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.”
So it was done:
I in their delicate fellowship was one—
Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies.
I knew all the swift importings
On the wilful face of skies;
I knew how the clouds arise
Spuméd of the wild sea-snortings;
All that’s born or dies
Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
Of
mine own moods,
or wailful or divine;
With them joyed and was
bereaven.
I was heavy with the
even,
When she lit her glimmering
tapersRound the day’s dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning’s eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
I laid my own to beat,
And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human
smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
These things and I; in sound I speak—
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot
slake my
drouth;
Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
The breasts
o’ her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless
My thirsting mouth.
Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
With unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic
instancy;
And past those noised Feet
A voice comes yet more fleet—
“Lo! naught contents thee, who content’st not Me.”
Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke!
My harness piece by piece
Thou hast hewn from me,
And
smitten me to my knee;
I am defenceless utterly.
I slept,
methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the
rash lustihead of my young powers,
I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,
I stand amid the dust
o’ the mounded years—
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist.
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so
overplussed.
Ah! is Thy love indeed
A weed,
albeit an
amaranthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
Ah! must—
Designer infinite!—
Ah! must Thou
char the wood
ere Thou can’st
limn with it?
My freshness spent its wavering shower
i’ the dust;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
Such is; what is to be?
The
pulp so bitter, how shall taste the
rind?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;
Yet
ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid
battlements of Eternity;
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpséd turrets slowly wash again.
But not ere
him who summonethI first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
Be dunged with rotten death?
Now of that long pursuit
Comes on at hand the
bruit;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
“
And is thy earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!
Strange, piteous, futile thing!
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?Seeing none but I makes much of naught” (He said),
“And human love needs human meriting:
How hast thou merited—
Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child’s mistakeFancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
Rise, clasp My hand, and come!”
Halts by me that footfall:
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
“Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.”