Wednesday, June 1, 2011


One of the most amazing wonders of all is God's unrelenting pursuit of us through every circumstance of our lives!!! Below is a favorite poem of mine which gives a man's personal and very powerful account of the KING OF KINGS neverending quest of LOVE.  Only the first and last verses are posted here so if you would like to read it in completion you may do so at:

by Francis Thompson

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.’

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.’

Thompson, Francis (1859–1907) 

Francis Thompson trained to
be a doctor but never went into practice.  He pursued a
writing career instead, but was reduced to selling
matchsticks and newspapers to eke out a living. He
became addicted to opium, which he initially had been
taking as a remedy for ill health, and finally ended up a
destitute vagrant.
In 1888 he submitted some of his poetry to a magazine.
The editors, Wilfrid and Alice Meynell, recognized his brilliant ability and gave him a home. Had
they not he most certainly would have died, being on the verge of starvation.

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