Quotes About Wounds

Until recently I barely even knew the signs of welcome, like the way a person plopped down across from me and sighed deeply while looking at me with relief: a shy look on someone's face that gave me time to breathe and settle in. I didn't know that wounds and scars were what we find welcoming, because they are like ours. Trappings and charm wear off, I've learned. The book of welcome says, Let people see you.

They cramp around our wounds—the pain from our childhood, the losses and disappointments of adulthood, the humiliations suffered in both—to keep us from getting hurt in the same place again, to keep foreign substances out. So those wounds never have a chance to heal. Perfectionism is one way our muscles cramp. In some cases we don't even know that the wounds and the cramping are there, but both limit us.

After every feeding, I am embraced by him, and blood is drawn from me into him by a thousand infinitesimal wounds, strengthening the image him, and binding to his presence a soft fragrance which Goblin never had before. With each passing month, Goblin becomes stronger and his assaults on me more prolonged.

One thing I had learned from medicine, however, was that denial was often a good strategy; it could buy time for wounds to heal themselves.

What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

What happens in our hearts is our field of freedom. As long as we carry old wounds and anger in our hearts, we continue to suffer. Forgiveness allows us to move on.

Humor was an antiseptic that cleaned the deepest of personal wounds.

You know, it's amazing to me the wounds we carry for eternity. But what has fascinated me most these last few years is how the right person can heal them. I remember a wise man once said to me that everyone deserves to be loved. Even you. (Zarek)

People change and that, given time, all wounds fade to just an occasional painful throb. ~Atlantean God and 1st Dark-Hunter Acheron Parthenopaeus~

Scars are but evidence of life and wounds we choose to allow the healing of. We may not make the same mistakes again.

A wound that goes unacknowledged and unwept is a wound that cannot heal.

It has been said, "Time heals all wounds." I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue, and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.

There were four of them, so Will had them seriously outnumbered. He gave them one warning, identifying himself as a King's Ranger, but they chose to attack. Within seconds, three of them were on the ground, nursing arrow wounds to arms and legs. The fourth, his eyes wide with terror, tossed his sword away and fell to his knees, begging for mercy.

The marks humans leave are too often scars.

It would heal quite perfectly. And the sensation of the thick salvaged blood beating from his wounds into David's mouth as David knelt over him, his blond locks stuck willy-nilly between the clenching knuckles of Sebastien's hand-that was a passion worth anything.

Pain and blessings, deep wounds and healed scars, and, thank heaven, a God who could make sense of it all.

I am shot with wounds which have eyes that see a world all sorrow, always to be, panoramic and unhealable, and mouths that hang unspeakable in the sky of blood.

Against snow, a tall Beautiful Being. Whistlings of death and circles of muffled music make this adored body rise, swell and tremble like a ghost; scarlet and black wounds open in the magnificent flesh.

A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.

Like that cracked and broken pot, we humans are flawed. We have been damaged by pain, persecution, and disappointment. Yet God sees the value in each of us and continues to use us as His messengers, witnesses, and examples. The glue of His love patches our wounds so we can keep serving as His vessels, His treasures in fragile clay jars. Despite our flaws, we are worthy to share His love.

One day I will forgive you; until then there are scabs everywhere that you have touched me.

These woods are where silence has come to lick its wounds.

Ouch." Mr. Bell grabs his arm. Blood darkens his sleeve. "That's a bit sore, Mardellion. And not entirely fair." The tiny bombs that parents bury under their child's skin take years to explode.

Todavía hoy, en mis pesadillas, vuelvo a la niñez y compruebo que ese período de dolor no ha terminado. Es una herida que crece y se abre con el tiempo.