I’m bummed out that I was born AP, After Poetry. I don’t think that was 1960 yet, the year of my birth, but I’m confident the slide away from poetry in American life was well underway by then. The only real experience I had of it growing up was rock n’ roll music, the poetry of my youth. Outside of that, poetry left me dry. As I grew older and came to learn how indispensable poetry was in the history of the human race, I wanted to enjoy it. Unfortunately, I could never make myself do so. I glimpsed the beauty from afar, the allure, but couldn’t quite grasp it. It would always leak through my fingers before I could taste its sweetness. Since it’s not a normal part of our lived lives anymore, it has to be taught, practiced, and experienced to be appreciated. The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson written in 1898 would be a very good poem to start with.
I was recently on a podcast sharing my testimony, and I used the phrase hound of heaven several times because it so perfectly captures my reluctance to embrace Christ, and not only initially. It also wonderfully communicates God’s sovereign persistence that Jesus will have those he came to save (Matt. 1:21). I see the poem through much of my Christian life as God was slowly but surely sanctifying me whether I liked it or not. As a Christian of the Reformed, Calvinistic persuasion, I am convinced God saves His people to the uttermost, from the beginning of the journey to the end. We haven’t a chance to get away—the Hound always wins. As Augustus Toplady wrote in the timeless hymn, Rock of Ages, Jesus is the double cure for sin; we are saved from God’s wrath and made holy or pure. In theological terms we call that justification and sanctification. It’s a package deal.
I’ve listened to a lot of testimonies over the last several years, and my experience with the Hound of Heaven is not unique. I’m even reading a book now with the fascinating title, Coming to Faith Through Dawkins: 12 Essays on the Pathway from New Atheism to Christianity. Fleeing the Hound of Heaven seems to be the normal state of affairs for Christians to one degree or another. We’re persistent little sinners, and breaking the habit of wanting to be our own God is not easy; it comes to all of us like water running down a hill. I’m currently reading the last essay of a young woman who tried to get to truth through the New Atheism and psychedelic drugs for six years. Some people are really committed to getting away. About those years she writes,
All of it had left me here, crawling toward the cross, protesting and begging for some other way, some other rescue for the hell of my own creation than “this Jesus person.” . . .
Now that’s a serious commitment! Whatever the nature of our attempted escape, God is bigger than our sin and rebellion. He is creative and powerful enough, and loves us enough in his Son, that he uses our sin to coax us to fall in love with Him. Whatever form that coaxing takes, I guess that’s kind of up to us; not sure how all that works. Regardless, it’s a breathtakingly beautiful thing to behold in oneself as it happens, and joyfully amazing to witness it in others. God’s creativity is ever amazing in how he woos His people to Himself.
Christians experiencing the Living God like this, the existential dynamic of a real omni-everything being demonstrably in their lives, is possibly the most powerful apologetic for the Christian faith. Mere psychology and made up human ideas do not do this, cannot do this. Something merely coming out of the human brain does not have this power over such a prolonged period of time over so many different kinds of people, in every language and every socioeconomic strata of every kind of society. We won’t be surprised this was the plan all along. God’s promises to the Patriarchs was always to the nations, to people, as John says in Revelation, “from every nation, tribe, people and language.” It’s a beautiful tapestry only the Living God could weave, and finish!
Let’s do a little amateur exegesis on the first stanza of the poem.
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 unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat—and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet—
‘ All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’
We could park on these words for days to mine the meaning of each of these evocative phrases for our own lives. Several years ago I realized I hadn’t actually ever read the entire poem, so I printed it out and kept it beside my bed to read before I retired. Each time through I felt I could relate to Mr. Thompson more. I also felt the power poetry must have had for previous generations.
I too fled, in too many ways to count, in days and years and confusing ways. I had to look up the word labyrinthine, although I know what a labyrinth is:
The adjective labyrinthine describes something that is as confusing, complex, or maze-like as a labyrinth. This could be an actual maze, a city, or even a convoluted idea. The word comes from the Greek labyrinthos, the structure built to contain the mythological Minotaur. In the story, Daedalus did such a good job making the building labyrinthine that he nearly couldn’t find his way out.
How perfect is that! We get so confused in our fleeing that we feel like we’ll never find our way out. I mean, it looked so clear when I took that turn; that way seemed so right to me. Alas, as God tells us, “There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death” (Prov. 14:12).
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Who has ever fled from God when God was actually after them, and enjoyed it? We flee God’s word because it’s too convicting to think about. Our own rebellious thoughts are too sweet that even in the midst of tears we’ll try to convince ourselves things are happy and fine. Instead of turning around and repenting, we speed up thinking true fulfillment lies somewhere else other than the Hound chasing us.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
I think I’m going up, and all I do is accelerate down. Life is scary and challenging enough with God, but without Him? Thompson is using big, massive images to convey what it’s like to really get our wish and have God just leave us alone. Even as we’re running away and getting more miserable, we flee. I’ve heard it said that evil is irrational, and indeed it is. We think it will give us what we want, long for, but it gives us just the opposite, and yet we go in for more. Mind you, this doesn’t have to be an active rebellion like our drug addled friend above. Ignoring God and His word, pursuing whatever our own selfish interests might be, will do just fine—for many rebellion looks like apathy.
Thankfully, these “big Feet” relentlessly follow us, and as I often say, God is never in a hurry:
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Even in our salvation (justification and sanctification) he works methodically at His own pace because only He knows perfect timing and every single thing about us. For Thompson, these “big Feet” represented something deep inside him he could not deny no matter how far he fled:
They beat—and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet—
‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’
At some point in this journey of escape from God, all those things that promised to fulfill the God shaped vacuum in us leave us cold and empty. It’s a betrayal because they promise so much, and deliver so little. As Tim Keller often said, idolatry is turning good things into ultimate things, and all idols eventually lead to destruction.
I won’t explore the next stanza, but read it and experience the beauty and truth and see if you can relate. The entire poem is worth the effort, and maybe it will kindle a desire to have more poetry in your life.
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).
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 over
From 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 unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Came on the following Feet,
And a Voice above their beat—
‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’
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