Best 10650 quotes in «hands quotes» category

‎I cannot alter the past, but the future is very much in my hands.

I didn't respond to him. Couldn't speak at all. Couldn't look at his self-mutilation--not even the clean, bandaged version of it. Instead, I looked at my own rough, stained house painter's hand. They seemed more like puppets than hands. I had no feelings in it either.

Idle hands are the devils greatest tools. But it’ll be good to notice that the tools sharpened by idle heads. You are idle because that’s the job your mind gave you!

I feel the healing hands of God touch my heart and kiss my soul.

I feel like there are more possibilities when I work with my hands.

If you ask, flowers and plants will tell you many stories. God can talk through them, and if you ask them, they will raise their hands if they know they can help you with an illness.

If your hands don't find something they can do, they will find a reason to find that which they can't do

I’ll pour my life into your hands like oceans upon your sands if you can always stand to take a little more of me.

I just sit here and look at my hands. It is one of my better evenings. Yesterday I was very depressed.

I know my breasts, small as plums, would win no blue ribbons. But in your hands they tremble and fill with song like plump, white birds.

I lean across his body and lift his hand for inspection. As i run my fingertips over his broken skin, careful not to cause more pain, I say "I meant you blowfish. Your bones." His hand trembles a little in mine. Somehow that rattles me more then anything else. I could deal with losing my fantasy Brody more then i can face a very real, trembling Quince. "No," He whispers. "I pulled my punches." Then, with some of his usual humor, he adds, "Principal Brown already thinks I'm one step away from juvie. Don't need to put myself there." I look up ready to argue, when a lumpy spot in his heather gray t-shirt catches my eye. Lifting my fingers to the place just beneath his collarbone, I'm both surprised and not to feel a sand-dollar shaped object. My gaze continues the journey up to his. "Your still wearing it." We both know it's not a question, just like we both seem to have lost the ability to breathe. A whole sea of emotions washes though his eyes-fear,anger, pain, trust, love. Love. It's when i see that last one that i close my eyes. He whispers, "Always.

I like to look at people's hands. The lines drawn, the color of their skin. All beautifully different. Not one is raised or taught the same.

I’m not sure how old I was when I first tried looking in the mirror and telling myself, with a shiver of pride and a warning prickle of something like fear, ‘I am the most powerful person in the world.’ In a way, it was true. My hands and mind could do things no one else’s could, but I was too young then to understand that some power—the kind that really matters—comes from other people. And what good is being faster, or stronger, or smarter than everyone else when it leaves you all alone?

In God’s hands, the ingredients of our lives will always work out ultimately for our good and, even better, for His eternal purposes.

IN THE HANDS OF MAN He who creates a poison, also has the cure. He who creates a virus, also has the antidote. He who creates chaos, also has the ability to create peace. He who sparks hate, also has the ability to transform it to love. He who creates misery, also has the ability to destroy it with kindness. He who creates sadness, also has the ability to to covert it to happiness. He who creates darkness, can also be awakened to produce illumination. He who spreads fear, can also be shaken to spread comfort. Any problems created by the left hand of man, Can also be solved with the right, For he who manifests anything, Also has the ability to Destroy it.

I think clapping is how mourn.

It was quite a beautiful thing, the way we simply just came to be. With no effort or trying, just slowly finding each other’s hands in the dark. No chains or promises, just a simple sign of hope that things will go on and get better.

I’ve finally given in, my eyes are shut under the blindfold. I can hear and smell, but I cannot see. My hands are clammy I feel cold yet I am warm. It is what I wanted, but I am now unsure, dubious yet at the same time excited and curious. I would like to think I feel a bit like Alice just before she fell down the hole into the rabbit hole. Yet there are no rabbits here… not even those of the rampant persuasion.

Mustang...' I rest my hand on her wrist. Despite her strength, it's frail in my hands. Frail as the other girl's was when I held her in the deepmines. I couldn't help that girl. And now I feel like I can't help this woman. Would that my hands were meant to build. I would know what to say. What to do. Maybe in another life I would have been that man. In this one, my words, like my hands, are clumsy. All they can do is cut. All they can do is break.

One of my astronomy managers used to tell me that liquid nitrogen was harmless and was just liquid air. He would pour it onto his bare hands to demonstrate how safe he thought it was. I was later to realize that incompetence was a feature of high altitude astronomy.

Only my hands are able to pass my thoughts, not my mouth.I don't How to change.

Pick a leader who will make their citizens proud. One who will stir the hearts of the people, so that the sons and daughters of a given nation strive to emulate their leader's greatness. Only then will a nation be truly great, when a leader inspires and produces citizens worthy of becoming future leaders, honorable decision makers and peacemakers. And in these times, a great leader must be extremely brave. Their leadership must be steered only by their conscience, not a bribe.

Retirement is the menopause of an employee’s mind and hands.

If you want a fried fish to fly and enter your mouth, you must keep waiting till the unending time ends. Dead fish doesn't fly. If you want to eat it, your own hands must carry it.

I must go the washroom. I've shaken a lot of hands.

...in India ink your writing is lovely, but not as lovely as your hand - it is your hand - I know your hand - it fits so well in mine ...

I think the best shaped box ever on earth is a coffin which can be handmade to escort the forever numb-hands.

It is no good worrying about things that are out of your hands

It's not being a woman I mind so much," she said slowly. "'Tis the way men seem to always order my life." She leaned earnestly toward him. "Your hand, Papa, has wielded a sword and cradled a child and held power over hundreds of men." She held up her own hand. "This one has far fewer adventures before it.

I’ve killed fifty-two people. But really all I want is to get my hands on her. I’d be happy with fifty-three. Just one more and I’ll be satisfied.

I went closer this time and touched him. He let out a deafening shriek, as if something had pierced into his heart. I held his hand and sat there, admiring the intricate network of life on them. The creases and folds in his body were testament to the cruelty that he had been subjected to in this world. The watery eyes screamed of the pain, the agonising wait to leave this godforsaken place forever, that had given him nothing but pleadings for mercy.

Love is not leaning on each other, adjusting to fit a different size. Love is simply two hands reached out in the darkness, saying; I’ll be your light, if you’ll be mine.

Most people shake your hand but only a few touch your heart.

My calloused hands tell the story of my life. I’ve loved these fields more than a man can love anything outside his family. I’m a farmer. Engrave it on my headstone: Farmer.

My hands aren't yours to reach and grab. My feet aren't yours to walk. My back's not yours to ride and stab. My tongue's not yours to talk.

Never believe the lines on your hands that predict your future. Because people who don't have also have future.

Prose Poems from my book SPAN OBSERVATION So, we may not be able to explain the world. Not exactly. But we can accept it, and love it. We can turn our faces to the light and examine the minutest details simply for the sake of it. We can live lives of joy and purpose. We are all part of one whole. Take comfort in this. Almost every one of us is capable of holding a cup to another’s lips without our hands shaking.

Respect the hand stronger than your hand if and only if that hand is just and an honourable hand!

Run your purpose on the toes of your feet before people can type your success stories with the fingers of their hands.

Satan will not ask you to carry a chair and sit with him, instead he will snatch the chair from your hands and dismantle your body with it.

Show me the world inside you, I don't mind if you have broken walls or abandoned garden, and if your moon is dark let me hold your hands.

She looked down instead. Long enough to notice that the duke wore a signet ring, and that his hand was long and elegant and scrupulously groomed but sported emphatic veins, as though he'd used his hands to do difficult masculine things his entire life. Dark, crisp hair curled on his wrist, and that hair seemed almost embarrassingly intimate, because if she wanted to right now she could touch it. His finger looked very brown against her own white hand, which she normally took such care to keep from the sun. His hand could cover hers completely if he wanted, shelter it, vanquish it, comfort her or render her terrifyingly defenseless. Funny how the spot where the duke's finger touched her was suddenly the locus of the universe for three people. "Your hand is unconscionably soft, Miss Eversea," he murmured. 'Oh.' And then he took his fingers away. Her eyes widened. She couldn't lift her head just yet. The shock of the stealthy compliment spread slowly through her, the way sherry did when bolted quickly.

She’d never seen a boy with hands like that, with long, delicate fingers, beautiful but still masculine. His fingernails were long too, almost crystalline, tapered to points. They were the kind of hands you’d expect to see under lace cuffs, like Mozart or something.

She stretched her hands towards the sky. To grab all the stars, to hold the moon, to take away everything that the sky had. So that the sky could finally understand, how it feels to lose everything that makes it beautiful.

Sometimes you just have to hold each other’s hands and walk through it all.

Someone once joked, Hell is other people. But the truth is that connection to other people can be sacred. Why else did God give so many people life? (Adam was't enough.) Or more simply, why else would He design hands that so perfectly clasp?

Sometimes, people don’t need our homes to live in or our bodies to lean on. All they need are our hands to lift them up.

Success is not reserved for a selected group of people who have silver spoons in their mouths. Those who have golden spoons in their hands can equally be satisfied by guiding their faiths to feed their dreams

Tell me again about the girl whose hands have no color. Whose hands are completely white. This time make them damned, or untouched, or have her open a red umbrella or point at some maple leaves and damned near cry. Those hands. As freakish goes, I wish I had a tail. Maybe then you’d know how much I like you. It shakes me through, damn through. It shakes me. When she carries a peacock feather. When she touches her neck or thighs. You’re a person. It’s not so bad. You have hands. You are a person with hands to hold things. Things you like. Tremendous things. Tell me what you will hold today. I know there is room for everything. There is no need to be ceremonious. Tell what gets let go.

That's the thing about hands. I love to hold hands because it brings comfort to me to know and feel I'm holding onto the person I love.