Best 1001 quotes in «praying quotes» category

When I pray, coincidences happen, and when I don't, they don't.

When I told you that I’d pray for you, what did you think I was talking about?

When I was praying there was a Presence - I saw nothing and yet Our Lord Crucified seemed present for a few instants.

When life knocks you to your knees, and it will, why, get up! If it knocks you to your knees again, as it will, well, isn't that the best position from which to pray?

When man is with God in awe and love, then he is praying.

When our will wholeheartedly enters into the prayer of Christ, then we pray correctly.

When praying for the Lord's will about something questionable, don't give up if you don't receive clear leading after one prayer; just keep on praying until God makes it clear.

When the child is ill, the mother will know how to pray.

When things get bad enough, your only resort is to lie in bed and start praying.

Where I'm from, life's a gamble, grab the dice/'Fore I leave, pray to God, then I grab my Nikes

When you don't pray, the devil rides ya when ya sleep

When you get to the place where you would worry, Stop and pray.

When we change the way that we pray, everything changes.

When we pray to God we must be seeking nothing - nothing.

When we pray, we don't change the world, we change ourselves.

When we pray in the name of Jesus, we carry the authority of heaven.

When we pray, we open the door for God to come into our problems and situations and work on them.

When we pray and meditate sincerely and soulfully, we receive an open-hearted invitation from heaven.

When we pray, we must begin by conceiving God in full and vigorous images, but we must go on to acknowledge the inadequacy of them and to adhere nakedly to the imageless truth of God.

When we pray we link ourselves with an inexhaustible motive power.

When we work, we work. When we pray, God works.

When you affirm big, believe big and pray big, big things happen.

When you pray, you are not starting the conversation from scratch, just remembering to plug back into a conversation that's always in progress.

When you recognize the festive and the still moments as moments of prayer, then you gradually realize that to pray is to live.

While praying I passed into a state of entrancement, and in that state I saw the angel and the plates.

Whoever does not pray to God, prays to the devil.

Why do Christians sing when they are together? The reason is, quite simply, because in singing together it is possible for them to speak and pray the same Word at the same time; in other words, because here they can unite in the Word.

Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered.

Worship seals all prayers at the front and at the back. Always pray with praise beginning and praise ending.

Why dost thou not pray... to give thee the faculty of not fearing any of the things which thou fearest, or of not desiring any of the things which thou desirest, or not being pained at anything, rather than pray that any of these things should not happen or happen?

Work and pray, live on hay, youll get pie in the sky when you die.

Writing is the only way I know how to pray.

Yet then from all my grief, O Lord, Thy mercy set me free, Whilst in the confidence of pray'r My soul took hold on thee.

You all right?" Diana let out a deep breath. "Ask me again when I'm not praying.

You are never more like Christ than when you love, pray for & serve your family.

You are thirty minutes late." "Yes." "Would you be thirty minutes late to a wedding or a funeral?" "No." "Why not, pray tell?" "Well, if the funeral was mine I'd have to be on time. If the wedding was mine it would be my funeral.

You can call it godliness - it IS godliness. It is the highest, the greatest flowering of being. But it is not a God somewhere outside you. You cannot pray to it. You can be it, but you cannot pray to it, because it is not separate.

You can do more than pray after you have prayed, but you cannot do more than pray until you have prayed.

You can't always measure the effects of activist work; you just have to wish and pray that the message gets through.

You can pray just like anyone else. The gifts of the Spirit belong to the Holy Spirit. You have this inside you by faith and can be a conduit.

You can't hide the thunderbolt. When it hits you, everybody can see it. Christ, man, don't be ashamed of it, some men pray for the thunderbolt. You're a very lucky fellow. - Calo

You can’t pray away the gay, but you can torture a conflicted closet case to death.

You could pray all you want that you have a massive stroke while you're working and die, but possibly that won't happen, and you'll be in this bed, and somebody's going to have to clean you up.

All at once, something wonderful happened, although at first, it seemed perfectly ordinary. A female goldfinch suddenly hove into view. She lighted weightlessly on the head of a bankside purple thistle and began emptying the seedcase, sowing the air with down. The lighted frame of my window filled. The down rose and spread in all directions, wafting over the dam’s waterfall and wavering between the tulip trunks and into the meadow. It vaulted towards the orchard in a puff; it hovered over the ripening pawpaw fruit and staggered up the steep faced terrace. It jerked, floated, rolled, veered, swayed. The thistle down faltered down toward the cottage and gusted clear to the woods; it rose and entered the shaggy arms of pecans. At last it strayed like snow, blind and sweet, into the pool of the creek upstream, and into the race of the creek over rocks down. It shuddered onto the tips of growing grasses, where it poised, light, still wracked by errant quivers. I was holding my breath. Is this where we live, I thought, in this place in this moment, with the air so light and wild? The same fixity that collapses stars and drives the mantis to devour her mate eased these creatures together before my eyes: the thick adept bill of the goldfinch, and the feathery coded down. How could anything be amiss? If I myself were lighter and frayed, I could ride these small winds, too, taking my chances, for the pleasure of being so purely played. The thistle is part of Adam’s curse. “Cursed is the ground for thy sake, in sorrow shalt thou eat of it; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.” A terrible curse: But does the goldfinch eat thorny sorrow with the thistle or do I? If this furling air is fallen, then the fall was happy indeed. If this creekside garden is sorrow, then I seek martyrdom. I was weightless; my bones were taut skins blown with buoyant gas; it seemed that if I inhaled too deeply, my shoulders and head would waft off. Alleluia.

You dont necessarily have to be religious to pray.

You'll never be a perfect parent, but you can be a praying parent.

You look wise, pray correct that error.

You pray for yourself and just ask God to give you strength.

You should not begin to pray for all you want until you realize that in God you have all you need.

A kind of northing is what I wish to accomplish, a single-minded trek towards that place where any shutter left open to the zenith at night will record the wheeling of all the sky’s stars as a pattern of perfect, concentric circles. I seek a reduction, a shedding, a sloughing off. At the seashore you often see a shell, or fragment of a shell, that sharp sands and surf have thinned to a wisp. There is no way you can tell what kind of shell it had been, what creature it had housed; it could have been a whelk or a scallop, a cowrie, limpet, or conch. The animal is long since dissolved, and its blood spread and thinned in the general sea. All you hold in your hand is a cool shred of shell, an inch long, pared so thin that it passes a faint pink light. It is an essence, a smooth condensation of the air, a curve. I long for the North where unimpeded winds would hone me to such a pure slip of bone. But I’ll not go northing this year. I’ll stalk that floating pole and frigid air by waiting here. I wait on bridges; I wait, struck, on forest paths and meadow’s fringes, hilltops and banksides, day in and day out, and I receive a southing as a gift. The North washes down the mountains like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, and pours across the valley; it comes to me. It sweetens the persimmons and numbs the last of the crickets and hornets; it fans the flames of the forest maples, bows the meadow’s seeded grasses and pokes it chilling fingers under the leaf litter, thrusting the springtails and the earthworms deeper into the earth. The sun heaves to the south by day, and at night wild Orion emerges looming like the Specter over Dead Man Mountain. Something is already here, and more is coming.