Quotes About Struggle

Nope, he penned these words of worship while sitting on the cold-floor, cold-food, maddening reality of Roman confinement. House arrest. Guards at the door, preventing his escape. When he wrote this glorious sentence, he was under a sentence himself, probably for as much as two years. Locked up. Locked down. Imprisoned.

The enemy's ways are anything but original. He's been trapping people the same way since the beginning of time.

battle going on and, as Galatians 5:16 and 25 says, "Walk by the Spirit, and you will not carry out the desire of the flesh," and "If we live by the Spirit, let us also walk by the Spirit.

Strategy 7—Against Your Purity He tries to tempt you toward certain sins, convincing you that you can tolerate them without risking consequence, knowing they'll only wedge distance between you and God (Isa. 59:1–2).

The fight of your life. A very real enemy has been strategizing and scheming against you, assaulting you, coming after your emotions, your mind, your man, your child, your future. In fact, he's doing it right this second. Right where you're sitting. Right where you are. But I say his reign of terror stops here. Stops now. He might keep coming, but he won't have victory anymore. Because it all starts failing when we start praying.

Fighting the low-level cloud cover that's blocking out what you're wanting to see break through into your life.

Someone who wants to remain hidden so that you'll forget he's even there. He'll do everything he can to make you feel like you will never win.

Maybe it's just the accumulated stress and strain from a long season of steady struggle. Or maybe you aren't overwhelmed at all. More like underwhelmed—bored with the sameness and mundaneness of a life you thought would be filled with so much more adventure. The predictability, the pointlessness. Urgh. You so desperately want a change, or at least a little excitement along the way.

Îi dau de lucruu minÈ›ii È™i-mi am?gesc durerea A' mele suferinÈ›e îcerc s? mi le-nÈ™el!

Ai de mi, que l'amor no hi ha cap herba que el curi i les arts que a tothom fan profit no en fan al seu amo!

Ii dau de lucru mintii si-ami amagesc durerea A' mele suferinte incerc sa mi le-nsel.

Duty bound, Aeneas, though he struggled with desire to calm and comfort her in all her pain, to speak to her and turn her mind from grief, and though he sighed his heart out, shaken still with love if her, yet took the course heaven gave him and turned back to the fleet.

Pugachov sonrió amargamente. —No, ya es tarde para arrepentirse. No habrá perdón para mí. Continuaré lo que he empezado. ¡Quién sabe! ¡A lo mejor lo consigo!

Paissez, bons peuples, L'appel de l'honneur ne vous réveillera pas. Les cadeaux de la liberté Ne sont rien pour des troupeaux. Ils doivent être abattus ou tondus.

Tant d'histoire, dit le duc d'Auge au duc d'Auge, tant d'histoire pour quelques calembours, pour quelques anachronismes! Je trouve cela misérable. On n'en sortira donc jamais?

Ninety-seven percent of everybody you've ever met in your life, and ninety-seven percent of everybody you'll ever meet in your life, have spent ninety-seven percent of their lives running away from fear.

J'appelle cela martyre pour la peine et adversité que je souffre en prison et ne sais si j'en souffrirai de plus grande. Mais je m'en remets de tout à notre Seigneur.

The hardworking poor should receive wages and bread.

I had really lost her, and the madness with which I avenged my mistakes on myself, by assaulting my physical self in several senseless ways in order to punish my moral self, contributed very much to the bodily ills under which I lost some of the best years of my life.

The Men of the Ordeal do not march to save the World, Proyas--at least not first and foremost. They march to save their wives and children. Their tribes and their nations. If they learn that the world, their world, slips into ruin behind them, that their wives and daughters may perish for want of their shields, their swords, the Host of Hosts would melt about the edges, then collapse.

You know nothing of war. War is dark. Black as pitch. It is not a God. It does not laugh or weep. It rewards neither skill nor daring. It is not a trial of souls, not the measure of wills. Even less is it a tool, a means to some womanish end. It is merely the place where the iron bones of the earth meet the hollow bones of men and break them.

Despite all the pain, all the wrenching loss, there is no greater glory than a complicated life.

He had despised the sorcerer, thinking him one of those mewling souls who forever groaned beneath burdens of their own manufacture.

A lifetime of cannibal hatred