Best 1689 quotes in «sorrow quotes» category

Pain and sorrow make up a person's character, not just the happiness and laughter.

Pain in the wilderness is an investment in pleasure in the Promised Land.

Pains are not to be relieved Sorrows are not to fade away a slight change in the vision may bring a new experience

Pain writes the words, sorrow wields the pen, tears wet the paper, and the story mends the heart.

Pain will come with time, but time will heal the pain.

Parables, yes. We here are to lead life with woe. Tasting bitter. the Tai Chi instructor

Parler de lui au présent c'était le ranger du côté des vivants. Et s'il était vivant, alors je n'étais pas tout à fait morte.

Past tears are present strength.

Pebbles that bring you joy are better than diamonds that bring you sorrow.

People maybe smiling but look to the eyes because they can’t hide the sorrow, pain, and heartache they're trying to hide behind their smile.

People referred to the symbolism of the empty Cross more than once on its journey. It would seem obviously to point to our faith in Jesus’ resurrection. It’s not quite so simple though. The Cross is bare, but in and of itself the empty Cross does not point directly to the Resurrection. It says only that the body of Jesus was removed from the Cross. If a crucifix is a symbol of Good Friday, then it is the image of the empty tomb that speaks more directly of Easter and resurrection. The empty Cross is a symbol of Holy Saturday. It’s an indicator of the reality of Jesus’ death, of His sharing in our mortal coil. At the same time, the empty Cross is an implicit sign of impending resurrection, and it tells us that the Cross is not only a symbol of hatred, violence and inhumanity: it says that the Cross is about something more. The empty Cross also tells us not to jump too quickly to resurrection, as if the Resurrection were a trump card that somehow absolves us from suffering. The Resurrection is not a divine ‘get-out-of-jail free’ card that immunises people from pain, suffering or death. To jump too quickly to the Resurrection runs the risk of trivialising people’s pain and seemingly mapping out a way through suffering that reduces the reality of having to live in pain and endure it at times. For people grieving, introducing the message of the Resurrection too quickly cheapens or nullifies their sense of loss. The empty Cross reminds us that we cannot avoid suffering and death. At the same time, the empty Cross tells us that, because of Jesus’ death, the meaning of pain, suffering and our own death has changed, that these are not all-crushing or definitive. The empty Cross says that the way through to resurrection must always break in from without as something new, that it cannot be taken hold of in advance of suffering or seized as a panacea to pain. In other words, the empty Cross is a sign of hope. It tells us that the new life of God surprises us, comes at a moment we cannot expect, and reminds us that experiences of pain, grief and dying are suffused with the presence of Christ, the One Who was crucified and is now risen.

People who go through life smiling miss out on the dignity of sorrow

Perhaps Hurston saw in her mother, Lucy, a version of Persephone, who is so missed when she's gone that the world literally starts to die. This type of grief, as Toni Morrison writes in Sula, has no top and no bottom, "just circles and circles of sorrow.

Perhaps the sorrow was not, after all, emanating from the attic, but from her.

Perhaps this 'dead' feeling was also brought on by an intensification of her old secret sorrow. Perhaps one day this sorrow might end. But she did not think it would end or see how it could end.

Poetry empowers the simplest of lives to confront the most extreme sorrows with courage, and motivates the mightiest of offices to humbly heed lessons in compassion.

Positive thoughts emanate when we are in a sate of joy and negative thoughts come when we are in a state of sorrow.

Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things

Present tears water the gardens of future blessings.

Precious Lord, take my hand Lead me on, let me stand I am tired, I am weak, I am worn Through the storm, through the night Lead me on through the light Take my hand, precious Lord And lead me home When my way grows dreary Precious Lord, lead me near When my life is almost gone At the river I will stand Guide my feet, hold my hand Take my hand, precious Lord And lead me home

Sage of old held desire as suffering But suffering is desire as known to me

Rejection is one of the worse forms of pain. Loss is the worst. Grief haunts until you allow yourself to move on.

Remember: God's grief at the unspeakable things we do to one another is beyond measuring, but so is His mercy. It might seem a terrible thing to say to people who've lost and suffered so much at the hands of hatred and violence. But true courage is not to hate our enemy, any more than to fight and kill him. To love him, to love in the teeth of his hate—that is real bravery. That ought to earn people m-m-medals.

Ricky just listens. He isn't shocked. He isn't surprised. He listens to me because he knows. He knows the shame and the guilt and the sorrow and the rage. And he does not judge me. He just listens.

Sad birds still sing happy songs.

Sadness grieves the spirit. But sorrow refines soul.

... Saeed's father wept only when he was alone in his room, silently, without tears, his body seized as though by a stutter, or a shiver, that would not let go, for his sense of loss was boundless, and his sense of the benevolence of the universe was shaken, and his wife had been his best friend.

Putting into words what exactly was off is not easy. I myself don’t even understand it. It was like a replica of my best friend was sitting in front of me, saying well-rehearsed lines at the wrong cues whilst I struggled to remember my dialogues. It was as if you had talked to me in some other language, a vernacular I used to be fluent in; but now, although the words sounded familiar, I really had no idea what you meant.

Raistlin opened his eyes, looking at her without recognition. And in them, she saw deep, undying sorrow--the look of one who has been permitted to enter a realm of deadly, perilous beauty, and who now finds himself, once more, cast down into the grey, rain-swept world.

red rain is coming down red rain is pouring down red rain is coming down all over me I'm bathing in it red rain coming down red rain is coming down red rain is coming down all over me I'm begging you red rain coming down red rain coming down red rain coming down red rain coming down over me in the red red sea over me over me red rain

Remember me when faded illumination transcends my name- Remarks are heard with beating silence and I am born on tranquil starlight-

Sadness is a bruise on the skin of memory.

Sadness is a grieve spirit. But Sorrow is refined the soul.

Saeed prayed a great deal, and so did his father, and so did their guests, and some of them wept, but Saeed had wept only once, when he first saw his mother's corpse and screamed, and Saeed's father wept only when he was alone in his room, silently, without tears, his body seized as though by a stutter, or a shiver, that would not let go, for his sense of loss was boundless, and his sense of the benevolence of the universe was shaken, and his wife had been his best friend.

Sarah shifted on the bench. I worried she was winding up to say something, that Sky would start humming now, that the fright spring-coiled inside me would break loose. Then I remembered the widow dress I was wearing. I made a sound with my lips like I was trying to give him an answer, but choking on the words, seized by my grief, and I didn't have to pretend that much. I felt sorrow for my life, for what I'd lived and seen and known, for what was lost to me, and the weeping turned real.

Secrets are festering parasites to a relationship, devouring their hosts from within, leaving behind a empty hollow husk of what once was.

She dove, plunging fully beneath the surface and came up again in tears. Rivulets ran from her face, and the sun ignited them each, transforming them, even amid her sorrow, into gilded runnels set with a diamond shine.

She came and she went, in sorrow for the death of dreams, and she came no more.

She did not want to talk of her sorrow, but with that sorrow in her heart she could not talk of outside matters.

She had never looked as well. She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering.

She imagined herself drowning along the tides of Sumendu Lake, down own into the depths of solemn solitude, splashing into the serenity of forever silence.

She held each sorrow like a chafing grain of sand and grew her grudges like pearls.

She kissed him but he didn't seem to recognize it.

She is intent on pleasing the men that frighten her.

She had worn the Morgenstern ring since Jace had left it for her, and sometimes she wondered why. Did she really want to be reminded of Valentine? And yet, at the same time, was it ever right to forget? You couldn't erase everything that caused you pain with its recollection. She didn't want to forget Max or Madeleine, or Hodge, or the Inquisitor, or even Sebastian. Every moment was valuable; even the bad ones.

She had wept until she was scrapped raw inside, empty but for the leaden weight of every memory of the life she had left, the grasping thorns of every choice that had brought her to this bleak and howling place. When darkness fell she poured rivers of tears into the wood and soul and stone beneath her, a well of loneliness that felt as though it would never run dry.

She is so white-hot furious she can barely see. She stokes the fire of her hatred, feeding it tidbits about bigoted Dina and spineless mushmouth Ralph, because she knows that just beyond the rage is a sorrow so enervating it could render her immobile. She needs to keep moving, flickering around the room. She needs o fill her bags and get the hell out of here.

She knew as well as anyone that the world could be a place of trial and sorrow, that there was injustice and suffering and heartlessness - there was enough of all that to fill the great Kalahari twice over, but what good did it do to ponder that and that alone? None, she thought.

She made him sad, but he also longed for this sorrow to arrive in his room as often as possible in that ascetic uniform of long top and jeans, the cassock of her platonic detachment.

She never answered. She couldn’t. All she could do was stare, reaching toward him with her gaze alone, pulling him to drown in the sorrow of those depthless black pools.