Flowers ... that are so pathetic in their beauty, frail as the clouds, and in their colouring as gorgeous as the heavens, had through thousands of years been the heritage of children-honoured as the jewellery of God only by them-when suddenly the voice of Christianity, counter-signing the voice of infancy, raised them to a grandeur transcending the Hebrew throne, although founded by God himself, and pronounced Solomon in all his glory not to be arrayed like one of these.
Thomas De QuinceyRelated topics
beauty frail glory gorgeous grandeur jewellery voice colouring years heavensRelated quotes
The Good Samaritan was not a Hebrew. He was not one of "the chosen people.” He was a poor, "miserable heathen,” who knew nothing about the Jehovah of the Old Testament, and who had never heard of the "scheme of salvation.” And yet, according to Christ, he was far more charitable than the Levites-the priests of Jehovah, the highest of "the chosen people.” Is it not perfectly plain from this story that charity was in the world before Christianity was established?
Robert G. Ingersoll
The gospel and the first church were never hostile to women nor treated them as minors. ... When Christianity became a power or authority, this worked against women. A strange perversion, yet fully understandable when we allow that women represent precisely the most innovative elements in Christianity: grace, love, charity, a concern for living creatures, nonviolence, an interest in little things, the hope of new beginnings-the very elements that Christianity was setting aside in favor of glory and success.
Jacques Ellul
And then, startling in its crisp transatlantic tones, a voice said:
"Stick 'em up.”
They swerved around. Schwartz, dressed in a peculiarly vivid set of striped pyjamas stood in the doorway. In his hand he held an automatic.
"Stick 'em up, guys. I'm pretty good at shooting.”
He pressed the trigger - and a bullet sang past the big man's ear and buried itself in the woodwork of the window.
Three pairs of hands were raised rapidly.
Agatha Christie
Not that I rise against thee, Poetry,
Mother of Beauty, of ideal Life!
But I must pity him condemned to dwell
Within the limits of these whirling worlds
In dying agonies, or yet to be,
Doomed to sad memories, or prophecies,
Perchance remorse, or vague presentiments,-
Who gives himself to thee! for everywhere
Thou ruinest wholly those who consecrate
Themselves, with all they are, to thee alone,
Who solely live the voices of thy glory!
Zygmunt Krasiński
Grieving, yet somehow unbending, steadfast, unafraid, the voice rose through the evening like memory, and a gust of wind blew up from the river, dimming the song, rustling the trees, then died and became still. I'll lay in de grave and stretch out my arms ... Suddenly the voice ceased, and all was quiet.
Then what I done was wrong, Lord? I said. And if what I done was wrong, is there no redemption?
I raised my eyes upward but there was no answer, only the gray impermeable sky and night falling fast over Jerusalem.
William Styron