Best 10650 quotes in «hands quotes» category

After some time my husband reached over to hold my hand, which reminded me that at least there was this, at least we still had hands that remembered how to love each other, two bone-and-flesh flaps that hadn't complicated their simple love by speaking or thinking or being disappointed or having memories. They just held and were held and that is all. Oh, to be a hand.

A hand is not enough...to never let go

All those dotted lines were just the parts of the story where she would get on the ground and get her hands dirty with the mess of it all. The mess and the glory of other people’s hearts and heart songs. She would learn it would take grit, and guts, and courage to make a difference. But the world will always need people who care enough to make a difference, so she needed to not miss her casting call.

..And because he was still able to move his hands - Morrie always spoke with both hands waving - he showed great passion when explaining how you face the end of life.

And the moment she held that diary in her hands, she summoned all her demons at once. The moment she opened it a hand from every page held her and pulled her inside. And in a moment even before she could realize what was happening to her she was drowning in the sea, fighting to breathe and fighting to swim back to the surface. But the hands kept pulling her down deep into the darkness until her voice died slowly.

A poetess is not as selfish as you assume. After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride— and spaces—the groom, she knows that as soon as she has penned the poem, it’s yours to consume. So, without giving it a think, she blows on the ink and the letters fly away like dandelions on a windy day, landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips. But more often than not, you can easily spot them trodden and forgotten, becoming sodden and rotten. Yet, she will continue to make what’s others to take because selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

As he farmed, hard labor left his hands callused, the sun bleached his hair, his face leathered, and his heart throbbed with music.

A seemingly simple task like taking a bath or wearing a condom feels like multitasking to someone who suffers from hemiplegia or has only one hand.

Confession and repentance might be described as the negative side of submission; this involves getting rid of everything which hinders God’s control over our lives. Yielding to God might be described as the positive side . . . placing ourselves totally into the hands of God.

As the High Priestess looked down upon the child, she was struck by her holy perfection. She was a tiny person in miniature, and her beautiful eyes, little hands, and long eyelashes were sublime.

Being lucky is in your hands as it’s outcome of your deeds.

Both her father’s hands bore the scars of old burns: the lines a map of a place no one wanted to remember, and Ross couldn’t forget.

Boredom is probably more frequent and more tormenting if you do not have sight or hands.

Ask of your eyes to see only to seek love. Ask of your mouth to speak only to utter words of love. Ask of your hands to feel if only to touch the lover.

Cam was staring into her coffee, cradling the mug in both hands. A working woman's hands, sporting a few scrapes and scratches. Strong, capable hands.

Create your own future; you are your own artisan. Promote your own brand; you are your own marketer! You've got the hands to do that. Just believe it is possible!

Do what you choose to do with all your heart, head and hands! Your attitude determines how passionate you do what you chose to do.

Dodirni je recima tamo gde ruke ne mogu.

Every time he raised his hands on her. He killed a prince from a fairy tale somewhere deep within her heart, brutally.

Everyone writes with hand, but very few can write with heart

Eyes of a poet, hands of a killer. Who the hell are you?

Failure becomes success when it finds positive minds; Tragedy becomes melody when it lands in positive hands. With positivity, possibility is assured!

Farm labor had stained his hands, but music stained his heart.

For a child, no hand is stronger and softer than the hand which touches her lovingly!

Get up,” she said. “Get up, my lord. If you do not have long, there is still much to do. You must not waste another day, another morning! Take hold of your life with both hands and crush it to you, my lord. You will not have another in this world.

For all these stars, nothing is new. They’ve seen all kinds of wars and miracles, too. They know the messengers with their holy books will smile and wash their hands in blood. They know the politicians with their good looks will make the poor eat pies of mud. They’ve seen the Earth freeze and then burn with greed. They’ve seen the trees and the seas emptied. Yet, you won’t hear their sneers when a man arrives and, having experienced a number of years, proclaims: 'I have lived!' Because nothing is new under these stars: the lies, the love, the memories and scars, the ruin, the revolution, the fakes and true, the families, the friends, none of it is new. All of it—even the me and you.

Girl Without Hands Walking through the ruins on your way to work that do not look like ruins with the sunlight pouring over the seen world like hail or melted silver, that bright and magnificent, each leaf and stone quickened and specific in it, and you can't hold it, you can't hold any of it. Distance surrounds you, marked out by the ends of your arms when they are stretched to their fullest. You can go no farther than this, you think, walking forward, pushing the distance in front of you like a metal cart on wheels with its barriers and horizontals. Appearance melts away from you, the offices and pyramids on the horizon shimmer and cease. No one can enter that circle you have made, that clean circle of dead space you have made and stay inside, mourning because it is clean. Then there's the girl, in the white dress, meaning purity, or the failure to be any colour. She has no hands, it's true. The scream that happened to the air when they were taken off surrounds her now like an aureole of hot sand, of no sound. Everything has bled out of her. Only a girl like this can know what's happened to you. If she were here she would reach out her arms towards you now, and touch you with her absent hands and you would feel nothing, but you would be touched all the same.

Good heart fuels good work with the head.

God needs to bless the works of our hands, but you still need to do some work for God to bless it

Go ahead," Leandro tempted, "I dare you." "I'm a theif, my hands are fast." "I'm a murderer, so are mine.

God promised to bless the works of our hands. If you do not work, what is God going to bless you for?

Good heart leads to good work with the hands.

Hands that hold you so tenderly that you feel loved and bruised at the same time.

Having made a few bicycles in factories, having written some thousands of rather senseless advertisements, having rubbed affectionately the legs of a few race horses, having tried blunderingly to love a few women and having written a few novels that did not satisfy me or anyone else, having done these few things, could I begin now to think of myself as tired out and done for? Because my own hands had for the most part served me so badly could I let them lie beside me in idleness?

Have clean hands in whatever you do. Integrity is doing the right thing when people are watching you and still making it right when they keep their eyes off.

He puts us here to make an eternal difference. He puts us here to show everyone around us how much He loves them. He puts us here to be His hands and feet, His body and His heart.

He paused and eyed her as if she were an agate discovered in gravel. "But what a very sharp tongue you have for a housekeeper." Bridget's heart sank- she knew better than to speak so frankly. It was never good for a servant to be noticed by a master- particularly this master. "Come." He beckoned her closer with his forefinger and she saw the flash of a jeweled gold ring on his left thumb. She swallowed and opened her right hand, silently dropping the miniature to the lush carpet. As she walked toward him she nudged the little painting under the enormous bed with the side of her foot. She stopped a pace away from him. His lips curved, sly and sensual. "Closer." She stepped nearer until her plain, practical black linsey-woolsey skirts were crushed against his purple velvet knees. Her heart beat hard and swift, but she was confident her expression didn't show her fear. Still smiling, he held out his hands, palms upward. His hands were long-fingered and elegant. The hands of a musician- or a swordsman. She stared down at them a moment, confused. He quirked an eyebrow and nodded. Bridget placed her hands on top of his. Palm to palm. She expected searing heat or deathly cold and was a little surprised to instead feel human warmth. She'd been hired little more than a fortnight before the duke had supposedly been banished. In that time he had never struck her as human- or humane. "Ah," His Grace murmured, cocking his head with interest. "What feminine hands you have, despite your station in life." His blue eyes flashed at her from under dark eyelashes, a secretive smile playing about his mouth. She met his gaze stonily. His lips quirked and he looked down again. "Small, plump, with neat, round nails." He turned her hands over so that they now rested palms-up in his. "I once knew a Greek girl who swore she could read a man's life story from the lines on his hands." He dropped her left hand to trace the lines on her right palm with a forefinger. His touch sent a frisson along her nerves and Bridget couldn't hold back a shudder.

Hearts In Me If I look to the world with hearts in my eyes Then surely I’ll be intrigued and inspired. If I touch the world with hearts in my hands Then surely I’ll learn how to understand. If I listen to the world with hearts in my ears Then surely I’ll truly be able to hear. If I speak with the world with hearts in my mouth Then surely I’ll be kind and gentle enough. If I think of the world with hearts in my mind Then surely I’ll be awake to all life. If I reach for the world with hearts in my palms Then surely its love will flow through my arms

He had strong, steady hands, and I could tell from looking at them there was little he couldn't do. Mossy always said you could tell everything you needed to know about a man from his hands. Some hands, she told me, were leaving hands. They were the wandering sort that slipped into places they shouldn't, and they would wander right off again because those hands just couldn't stay still. Some hands were worthless hands, fit only to hold a drink or flick ash from a cigar, and some were punishing hands that hit hard and didn't leave a mark and those were the ones you never stayed to see twice. But the best hands were knowing hands, Mossy told me with a slow smile. Knowing hands were capable; they could soothe a horse or woman. They could take things apart -- including your heart -- and put them back together better than before. Knowing hands were rare, but if you found them, they were worth holding, at least for a little while.

Here I can become the blessing, a little life that multiplies joy, making the larger world a better place. God can enter into me, even me, and use these hands, these feet, to be His love, a love that goes on and on and on forever, endless cycle of grace.

Her hands are warm and soft. Hands I knew better then my own.

Her hands, so steady when she stirs vats of jam or braids my hair, flutter like frantic birds, desperate for me to move faster.

Holding her gaze, he sheathed his short sword and pulled the gauntlet off his left hand with his teeth. He held out his bare hand to her. She glanced at the proffered hand before laying her palm in his. Hot strength gripped her tightly as he pulled her upright before him, so close she would’ve had to move only inches to brush her lips across his throat. She watched the pulse of his blood beat there, strong and sure, before she lifted her gaze. His head was cocked almost as if he were examining her—searching for something in her face. She drew in a breath, parting her lips to ask a question.

His hands were tingling and he was sweating under falling snowflakes.

Horns honked all around us, and our fellow drivers seemed concerned about my education, as they were introducing me to all manner of exciting hand gestures. Some of them were even new to me. I pointed to one of them. "Look, Dominic. We're learning new things.

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.

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

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!

How simple the American narrative. Suppose you have two hands. The American political system will cut off both hands. You’ll then hear that those with one hand will be along the upper class and those with two will be part of the elite few. Then politicians will come along and tell you their plan for giving each American two hands. The people will buy into this and fight the disillusioned in favor of the politician. They are never for themselves and the politicians are only for themselves so no one is for the people.

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