Quotes About Sacrifice

Absolution – yes, I grasp the notion, but absolution is not the same as redemption, is it? The former is passive. The latter demands an effort, one with implicit sacrifice and hardship, one demanding all the higher qualities of what we call virtues.

He had told himself that it was an act of courage to let her go, to give her the final decision. Courage and sacrifice. He no longer believed that. There was no sacrifice made in being abandoned. There was no courage in doing nothing.

Legana Breed spoke: 'You are all marines?' 'Aye,' Fiddler said. 'Tonight, then, I too am a marine. Let us go kill people.

It's all right, Beak, to die alongside your comrades. It's all right. Do you understand me?' 'Yes sir, I do. It is all right, because they're my friends.' 'That's right, Beak.' And that's why no-one needs to worry, Captain.

It was compassion. The tragic kind of compassion, the kind that sacrifices itself and sees that sacrifice as the only choice and thus no choice at all, one that must be accepted without hesitation.

Kill, thought Ditch, nodding, kill, yes, I understand. I do. Kill, for her. Kill. And he found that the word itself, yes, the word itself, knew how to smile.

They died, Highness, even as they delivered those thirty thousand refugees to safety. They died, but they won.

Sacrifice must be weighed by the pain of what is surrendered, and this alone was the true measure of a virtue's worth.

I see now that the unnamed soldier is a gift. The named soldier—dead, melted wax—demands a response among the living…a response no one can make. Names are no comfort, they're a call to answer the unanswerable. Why did she die, not him? Why do the survivors remain anonymous—as if cursed—while the dead are revered? Why do we cling to what we lose while we ignore what we still hold?

To stand in the heart of Dragnipur, to stand above the very Gate of Darkness, this was, for Anomander Rake, a most final act. Perhaps it was desperation. Or a sacrifice beyond all mortal measure.

Soldiers now and soldiers to the end of their days – none would dare leave to find peace. Solicitude and calm would unlock that safe prison of cold control – the only thing keeping them sane.

I, Borduke of the 6th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear on the downy belly of the Queen of Dreams that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Birdshit scorpion, and may my father's ghost remain in its tomb, since the inheritance was mine to lose anyway, right? Dead means you don't care any more, right? It had better, because if it doesn't, then I'm doomed to paternal haunting for the rest of my days.

No one valued the given heart, no one saw that sacrifice for the precious gift it was. No, just a thing to be grasped, twisted by uncaring hands, then wrung dry and discarded.

They'll die for you now. I know, you don't do it on purpose. There's nothing calculated when you're being human, old friend. That's what makes you so deadly.

It is not enough to wish for a better world for the children. It is not enough to shield them with ease and comfort. Lostara Yil, if we do not sacrifice our own ease, our own comfort, to make the future's world a better one, then we curse our own children. We leave them a misery they do not deserve; we leave them a host of lessons unearned.

What is given away for free comes back wounded. Value is not always shared and some hands are rougher than others.

After all, war knows no other language. In war we invite our own destruction. In war we punish our children with a broken legacy of blood.

And the fact remained, whatever games the gods played, it was hard-working dirt-poor bastards like him who suffered for it.

Andiamo a prendere parte alla morte. Ed è in questi momenti, prima che le spade vengano sguainate, prima che il sangue bagni il terreno e le grida riempiano l'aria, che il senso di futilità scende su di noi. Senza le nostre armature, piangeremmo tutti quanti. In che altro modo potremmo reagire all'imminente promessa di incalcolabili perdite?

Darkness. A place where one is left blind - a strange thing to worship." "Perhaps the most realistic worship of all.

They came with white hands and left with red hands.

Virtues were lauded to ensure compliance, to wrap round raw, reprehensible servitude. To proclaim the sacrifice of others – each of whom stood in place of those reaping the rewards and so were paid in suffering and pain. So much for the majesty of patriotism.

Rake nodded. 'When you do, leave him alive. He has earned Dragnipur.' 'We

Worship the sacrifice they will make, for they make it in the name of compassion—the only cause worth fighting and dying for.