I would like to share with you an excerpt from a poem. It was written by a drug addict and a drop-out. It was also written over one hundred years ago.
Francis Thompson was a brilliant man. He dropped out of medical college and became addicted to opium, spending most of the rest of his life on the streets. He read newspapers he picked out of garbage cans and wrote letters to the editor. The editors said, “A genius greater than Milton is among us,” but he wrote anonymously so no one knew who he was. Eventually he made acquaintances with a couple who had some of his poetry published.
Thompson spent his entire life running from God, but in his last year on this earth he came to faith in Jesus Christ. The Hound of Heaven relates his life’s struggle. He was looking for love yet failed to see that the very One who could give him that love was the God he was running from. Only God could fulfill that need in his life. “Don’t you know that when you run from me you run from love?” God says.
I too can relate to this poem. I am so thankful that the Hound of Heaven continued to pursue me until I was made his own.
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 chasmed fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbed pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat–and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet -
“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”…
…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 mistake
Fancies 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.”
Posted by Krista Dominguez
Posted by Krista Dominguez
Posted by Krista Dominguez 