The Hound of Heaven

I am a lost man found.  I am struggling with Francis Thompson’s poem The Hound of Heaven.  I see it is about me but I cannot unlock its secret beauty, the beauty of each word to beautifully describe my own salvation.  I was cut to shreds laying in a hallway knowing I had walked every step of the way to where I was, dreadfully.  It was thirty-some-odd years ago and, I think, I even said aloud; “I give up!”  There was The Hound of Heaven as I lay before Him.  This is the jist of the poem but its ecstasy, the beauty of every word chosen, picked perfectly to fit the one before and after to tell the ‘greatest story ever told’ I cannot unlock.  The poem is like a beautiful rose which I cannot see because I hold only its petals.  I have sat with the learned in English Literature and had poet and poetry opened up by their professors.  Have known what I couldn't understand.  Thus I am before this great poem.  But one thing I do know; I am a lost man found.    

I found this piece of stained glass lying on my truck
window after my lover and I had finished our morning bike ride yesterday.  
I can often see The Joy better than I can hear Him.