Day 359: The Hound of Heaven

I’m a skeptic by nature. Most academics are, I guess. Even on my most skeptical days — yesterday was one — I attend.. Because a skeptic does not disbelieve; they suspend belief. Among other things, I attend Catholic Mass.

Listening to our pastor’s homily last night, I learned about the poem The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson. Though the title sounded familiar, I don’t think I’d ever read it.

Thompson spent three years living on the streets, addicted to a pain medication, opium. In 1888, he was rescued by a prostitute whom he never identified and vindicated by the editors of the periodical Merry England, who took an interest in his writing. In 1890, he wrote The Hound of Heaven.

The poem recounts a man’s attempt to flee from the love of God, which relentlessly pursues him anyway.

Photo by Paul Fernandez on Unsplash

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.

Is this me? I thought. No, I don’t think so. No, this isn’t me.

Then this:

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 adread

Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside).