Quotes About Saint

Saint Tropez and Ibiza were the true essences of early New Romantics.

You've got me confused with some kind of saint, Noreen. The kind who's OK with being martyred as long as his halo's straight in the photograph. If I'm going to throw myself to the lions, I want it to mean a lot more than just being remembered in some milkmaid's prayers on a Sunday morning. I never was a man for a useless gesture.

If he was diligent in his studies, insistent on acquiring knowledge, and devoted to mercy and grace, he could become not a poor and obscure farmer but a philosopher, a saint, a hero, or a wise, good, great man.

All backups take their cue from Elrod Hendricks, the patron saint of erstwhile catchers.

Martyrs - those killed because of their Catholic faith - can be beatified even if they don't perform a miracle. However, all beatified individuals must stage a certifiable miracle before being made a saint.

Don't kneel in front of a saint who doesn't perspire.

Every one preaches for his own saint.

She's been absentmindedly saying the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi.

To the poet, to the philosopher, to the saint, all things are friendly and sacred, all events profitable, all days holy, all men divine.

Man is timid and apologetic. He is no longer upright. He dares not say "I think", "I am" but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before the blade of grass or the blowing rose. These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are, they exist with God to-day.

Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; he dares not say I think, I am, but quotes some saint or safe.

Nature, as we know her, is no saint…. She comes eating and drinking and sinning.

If a pickpocket meets a saint, he sees only his pockets." Then he'd get up and leave. Or he'd write, "If you wear shoeleather, the whole earth is covered with leather." These were his ways of teaching me about how motivation affects perception.

The eyes of a saint are always concentrated on the Supreme Self. The minute he is aware of himself, sainthood is lost. – Neem Karoli Baba

This age thinks better of a gilded fool than of a threadbare saint in wisdom's school.

To cut oneself entirely from one's kind is impossible. To live in a desert one must be a saint.

O.K. he's crazy. But he's a saint too. He scares me, I don't like him. He scares me. What the hell-he knows. Yeah? Why? What does he know? --Things most people'd have to die and go to Hell for, to know.

A saint is a human being who neither wants nor needs to hurt you.

God did not give you the Bible to make you a smarter sinner, but rather a holy saint. Application, not knowledge, pleases God.

Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility. — Saint Augustine

reasons, Edith Stein is the saint who, instead of advancing Jewish-Christian relations, impedes them. Until the Church accomplishes a complete reckoning with a past that reaches far beyond the Holocaust, Edith Stein, instead of blessing the Church, will haunt it.

And she can be found in the hearts of those who feel that, above almost all the saints, she is the one who most understands what it means to be a human being who suffers and rejoices in everyday life. Her life—at once simple and complex, clear and opaque, childlike and mature, humble and bold, joyful and sorrowful—has spoken to millions of people. It spoke to my friend David. And it spoke to me, from the first moment I met her, in that little movie theater in Connecticut.

His cassock is done in black marble and his face and hands in white, lending the statue a creepily realistic look. The Jesuit art historian C. J. McNaspy, writing about the otherwise magnificent church, commented, "The statue of St. Stanislaus, upstairs in the sanctuary, however, I find deplorable. One would have thought that the young saint suffered enough in life.

Whenever addressed by her saint's name, she seemed to feel starched shifts, icy douches, and furtive subcellar scents threatening all over again—memory's imperishable dues.