Quotes About Angels

Your tears are muscles, hinged on wings lunar and solar. Your touch: life and death. (from poem Angel of Mercy)

That's the funny thing about America--the blessed thing. As many people as there are to hold you back, there are angels whose humanity makes up for all the others. I've had my share of angels.

That's the funny thing about America - the blessed thing. As many people as there are to hold you back, there are angels whose humanity makes up for all the others." p 405

As many people as there are to hold you back, there are angels whose humanity makes up for all the others.

And ye, beneath life's crushing load Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way With painful steps and slow, Look now! for glad and golden hours Come swiftly on the wing: O rest beside the weary road And hear the angels sing.

Were there always to be more damage, damage would be an aspect of perfection. We would all be angels, one-legged and faceless, seething with endless, hopeless praise. Bless Adonai for making us better than angels. Blessed is Adonai for making us human.

Good Lord, you would lead angels down a sinful path and they would follow joyously.

There are nine orders of angels, to wit, angels, archangels, virtues, powers, principalities, dominations, thrones, cherubim, and seraphim.

How many angels are there One - who transforms our live - is plenty.

The greatest sin in the world is to say 'I love you' without realising that God snd his angels are listening and judging. If you do not feel their presence you are not in love. You have no right to be in love.

Who among the angels will hear me if I cry? I stand in the dank and he dark, amid my wasted life, not knowing what to do, unable to make any decision, and weep. My hopes were extinguished a long while ago, and now any tinder of dignity follows suit.

Vivien Leigh was a phenomenal actress, a very complicated woman, living on the edge of mental problems, haunted by demons and angels. And though I've never thought of myself like Marilyn Monroe, I was inspired by the tremendous risk she took - of being vulnerable.

I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.

Our acts our angels are, for good or ill, our fatal shadows that walk by us still.

My delight and thy delight Walking, like two angels white, In the gardens of the night.

I used to go to the school plays my kids were in, and who were the angels at Christmas time? The blonde, blue-eyed girls. Who was Mary? And the shepherds were all the black and Indian kids in the background.

It is by suffering that human beings become angels.

I spent two summers managing the Midland Angels.

Every angel is terrifying.

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me against his heart: I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying.

Every angel is terrible. And yet, alas I welcome you, almost fatal birds of the soul, knowing about you. ... If the archangel came now, the perilous one, from the back of the stars but one step lower and toward us, our own high beating heart would slay us. Who are you? You early successes, spoiled darlings of creation...

O smile, going where? O upturned look: new, warm, receding surge of the heart--; alas, we are that surge. Does then the cosmic space we dissolve in taste of us? Do the angels reclaim only what is theirs, their own outstreamed existence, or sometimes, by accident, does a bit of us get mixed in? Are we blended in their features like the slight vagueness that complicates the looks of pregnant women? Unnoticed by them in their whirling back into themselves? (How could they notice?)

Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic orders? And even if one of them suddenly pressed me against his heart, I should fade in the strength of his stronger existence. For beauty's nothing but the beginning of terror we're still just able to bear.

Lovers, if Angels could understand them, might utter strange things in the midnight air. For it seems that everything's trying to hide us. Look, the trees exist; the houses we live in still stand where they were. We only pass everything by like a transposition of air. And all combines to suppress us, partly as shame, perhaps, and partly as inexpressible hope.