Quotes About Desperation

These prayers are intended to make you feel your desperation, cry out for deliverance, and celebrate your pardon.

Why not us, Jesus, and why not now? We're tired of playing church. We're bored with ourselves. Magnify your name in our midst and in this hour. We pray in your most majestic and merciful name. Amen.

We drift down time, clutching at straws. But what good's a brick to a drowning man?

The people of our city are holding on by a thread. Time has run out. Can we survive another night? And who can we depend on? Only God knows.

Sometimes I have a terrible feeling that I am dying not from the virus, but from being untouchable.

I planned how I would kill myself in the time of Churchill (stand under bombs), Victoria (throw myself under a horse), and Henry the Eighth (marry Henry the Eighth)- Little Bee

In a whisper he began begging for—and, as the sun set, received—the concession people always beg for: a little more time.

I have to tell you it was the first time even after all these years of expecting my own death that i truly knew what it meant to die because with you gone there was nothing left for me to live for.

Give me a mirror.Or holy water. I'll drink it,even!" I gasped as someone threw water on the side of my face. "A little warning next time would be nice.

I think that's what finally stopped me. I slid right to the edge. My legs were hanging over. And I could feel it too. I don't know how. There was no wind, no sound, no change of temperature. There was just this terrible emptiness reaching up for me.

You wouldn't believe how much harder it's getting for me to just leave my studio. It's really sad. In fact these days the only thing that gets me outside is when I say: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

This is what it feels like to be really afraid. Though of course it doesn't. None of this can truly approach the reality of that fear, there in the midst of all that bedlam, like the sound of a heart or some other unholy blast, desperate & dying, slamming, no banging into the thin wall of my inner ear, paper thin in fact, attempting to shatter inside what had already been shattered long ago. I should be dead. Why am I still here?

July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.

As she watched all of this, Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive. That's what she wrote about them . . . Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone to step forward and catch them in their arms. No one did.

She was still clutching the book. She was holding desperately on to the words who had saved her life.

Just give hime five more minutes and he would surely fall into the German gutter and die. They would all let him, and they would all watch. Then, one human. Hans Hubermann.

Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heart beat revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest?

He's waking her in every moment. Disturbing her. Reaching through her and abandoning her at the same time. He throws her down and takes her and cuts her open. The bedspring leaks - a howling, desperate noise of falling down and springing up, even though they don't want to. Refusal is pointless. Complaint has no use. Some crying crawls to the doorway where I stand. It hobbles out from the gap in the door and lands at my feet

Then the music begins and we can both hear the slow, quiet, sweet desperation of a song I won't mention. Imagine the softest, toughest, most beautiful song you know, and you've got it.

Se aferraba con desesperación a las palabras que le habían salvado la vida.

When their bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. When their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, their spirits came toward me, into my arms, and we climbed out of those shower facilities, onto the roof and up, into eternity's certain breadth. They just kept feeding me. Minute after minute. Shower after shower.

he tried not to look back as the stale bread disintegrated in his stomach. A few times, he shifted again and watched the lights become only a handful

When their bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. Their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, and their spirits came towards me, into my arms.

She was holding desperately on to the words who had saved her life.