Quotes About Death

Then breaking out in the bitterness of my soul, I said to myself with a grievous sigh, How can God comfort such a wretch!  I had no sooner said it, but this returned upon me, as an echo doth answer a voice: This sin is not unto death.  At which I was, as if I had been raised out of the grave, and cried out again, Lord, how couldst Thou find out such a word as this! 

camino al cielo es tan empinado como una escalera, y que el camino al infierno tiene tanta pendiente como un monte. Pero prefiero subir por la escalera hacia la vida, que bajar por la pendiente hacia la muerte".

He has given me rest by his sorrow and life by his death.

must venture. To go back is nothing but death; to go forward is fear of death, and life-everlasting beyond it.

El hombre que se aparta del camino de la sabiduría vendrá a parar en la compañía de los muertos'".

And now was I both a burthen and a terror to myself; nor did I ever so know, as now, what it was to be weary of my life, and yet afraid to die. 

So it shall be with thee when thou dost leave this world.  This did sweetly revive my spirit, and help me to hope in God; which when I had with comfort mused on a while, that word fell with great weight upon my mind, O death, where is thy sting?  O grave, where is thy victory?  1 Cor. xv. 55.  At this I became both well in body and mind at once, for my sickness did presently vanish, and I walked comfortably in my work for God again.

that we fulfilled the law by Him, died by Him, rose from the dead by Him, got the victory over sin, death, the devil, and hell, by Him; when He died, we died, and so of His resurrection.  Thy dead men shall live, together with My dead body shall they arise, saith He.  Isa. xxvi.

The fear of the LORD is a fountain of life, to depart from the snares of death.

He died at the house of one Mr Struddock, a grocer, at the Star on Snow Hill, in the parish of St Sepulchre's, London, on the 12th of August 1688, and in the sixtieth year of his age, after ten days' sickness; and was buried in the new burying place near the Artillery Ground; where he sleeps to the morning of the resurrection, in hopes of a glorious rising to an incorruptible immortality of joy and happiness;

The dream they dream is beautiful. A dream as bold as your own, or bolder. You want to explore and colonize the universe; they wish to extend the lifespan of the universe beyond all boundaries, to remake its laws, and shape reality to banish entropy, decay, and death forever. I'd like to believe in that dream whether it's true or not.

How can a people who do not mean to understand death hope to understand love, and who will sound the alarm?

This shit about being fearless before death ain't got no quality. How could you say you were fearless about leaving the party, even in stir—even franks and rice taste good when you're hungry, even an iron bar feels good to touch, it feels good to sleep. It's like a party even in maximum security and who wants to walk out of a party into something that nobody knows anything at all about?

Trace listened to the story, but how could he get excited? Francis had no powers that would let him re-create a brush with death - particularly in the atmosphere of a commuting train, journeying through a sunny countryside where already, in the slum gardens, there were signs of harvest.

We can cherish nothing less than our random understanding of death and the earth-shaking love that draws us to one another ... Cleanliness and valor will be our watchwords. Nothing less will get us past the armed sentry and over the mountainous border.

I have experienced all kinds of foolish melancholy—I've been homesick for countries I've never seen, and longed to be what I couldn't be—but all these moods were trivial compared to my premonition of death.

A semi-cirque of flying rooks, just seven in number, flapped with creaking wings across the top of the tower, making their way northwest towards Mark Moor. Little did they reck of the cracking of the skull of a man upon a patch of grass! As for a tiny earth beetle that was foraging for its insect prey just there, it scurried away from Tom's blood as if it had been a lake of brimstone.

Those were the only tears, that was the only smile, evoked from any human skull at the funeral of William Crow.

We've learned how to destroy, but not to create; how to waste, but not to build; how to kill men, but not how to save them; how to die, but seldom how to live.

You know it's so complicated, first you love then you hate it. Someone's laughing, someone's crying, someone living, someone's dying. Somebody always looses and we still play the game.

I thought when love for you died, I should die. Its dead.Alone, most strangely, I live on.

And if you are slain in the way of Allah or you die, certainly forgiveness from Allah and mercy is better than what they amass.

Death is inevitable. Our fear of it makes us play safe, blocks out emotion. It's a losing game. Without passion you are already dead.

Your coffin reached the monstrous hole. And a part of me went down into the muddy earth with you and lay down next to you and died with you.