Aug 27th - The Hound of Heaven

I know that today is the feast of St. Monica but I thought that this poem fragment fit well with her and Augustine's relationship, as well as Augustine's with God.
Mother Monica pray for all of us children of Eve.

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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.                    5
      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,                                              10
      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.’                         15
 
Now of that long pursuit                                                          155
    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!                           160
  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—                                                        165
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?                                                          170
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:                  175
  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,                                            180
  I am He Whom thou seekest!           
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.’

-- Francis Thompson, The Hound of Heaven