Quotes About Light

Come gather the pieces all scattered and lost The lie in what's holy, the light in what's not The story's been written the letter's been sealed You gave me a lily but now it's a field

Forget the perfect offering. Everything is flawed. It's the cracks that let the Light in...

There is a crack, a crack, in everything. That's how the light gets in.

Maybe there's a God above But all I've ever learned from love Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you It's not a cry you can hear at night It's not somebody who has seen the light It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

I want to summon the eyes and hidden mouths of stone and light and water to testify against you.

In the thin light of hunted pleasure, I become afraid that I will never know my sorrow. I call on you with a cry that concentrates the heart. When will I cry out in gratitude? When will I sing to your mercy?

and tremble before the furnace of light in which you are formed and to which you return, until the time when he suspends his light and withdraws into himself, and there is no world, and there is no soul anywhere.

Mintea mea zboar? tot mai departe de-a lungul acestei È™osele înguste, mânat? de curiozitate, str?lucind de acceptare, tot mai departe, ca un cârlig cu pene, aruncat cu m?iestrie È™i înfipt adânc în lumina de deasupra pârâului. Undeva, unde eu nu pot ajunge È™i unde nu mai am control, cârligul se îndreapt? È™i devine suli??, suliÈ›a se scurteaz? È™i devine ac, iar acul coase lumea la un loc.

Si strinsero le mani, si baciarono quando la luce fu abbastanza fioca, filtrando dorata attraverso i cespugli spinosi. Poi tornarono lentamente a casa, senza tenersi per mano, ma urtandosi a vicenda.

Blessed are you, embrace of the falling, foundation of the light, master of the human accident.

There's a blaze of light in every word. It doesn't matter which you heard. The holy or the broken hallelujah.

And some women, Breavman thought, women like Shell, create [beauty] as they go along, changing not so much their faces as the air around them. They break down old rules of light and cannot be interpreted nor compared. They make every room original.

Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.

By the eyes, some will say, but I think not, really, for to the spectral tarsier in the bush, or to the owl in the churchyard tower, man and his lights must truly hold a demonic menace.

Embracing the Light Collected bits of truth Shimmering sparks Shards of light Merge Healing Restoring Bursting Bright Rising in divine ecstatic flame.

The Gathering According to the Kabbalah, in the beginning everything was God. When God contracted to make room for creation, spiritual energy filled the void. The energy poured into vessels which strained to hold the great power. The vessels shattered, sending countless shards, bits of the glowing matter, into the vastness of the universe. These scattered bits of divine light must be collected. When the task is done the forces of the dark will be vanquished and the world will be healed.

At this grim hour, the world sleeps in the darkness, and the Church sleeps in the light;

To please God, to be pleasing to God, is to "walk with Light," to walk with God in joy, praise, holiness, and humility as image-bearers of the Light.

Beyond a doubt truth bears the same relation to falsehood as light to darkness.

A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light.

Do you not see the hand of God, which gives harmony, light, and love to the world? Do not the mountains, in the blue cloud of incense, sing their hymn of glory?

Don't laugh at the voice of the stars. They are far away, their rays are light and pale, and we can barely see their sleeping shadows, but their sorcery is stern and dark.

Dawn is the time when nothing breathes, the hour of silence. Everything is transfixed, only the light moves.

I want to invite you to come for a stroll in the menagerie,' I said, feeling pretty uncomfortable. 'But it's too early,' she replied. 'It isn't five o'clock yet. I never get up before ten.' 'It's lovely out,' I added. "Oh, all right, if you insist.' We went down into the silent garden. Dawn is the time when nothing breathes, the hour of silence. Everything is transfixed, only the light moves.