We are material beings for but a moment in time, but we are spiritual beings forever.

Man's thought is always of the punishment that will come to him if he sins. But God's thought is always of the glory man will miss if he sins. God's purpose for redemption is glory, glory, glory.

Men will never be great in theology until they are great in suffering.

Thus, a godly man wonders at his cross that it is not more, a wicked man wonders his cross is so much.

It is well known that great art, great music and great literature can emerge out of great pain. This does not lessen the reality of the suffering of the artist, composer or writer, but it points to something creative and redemptive in the human person, made in the image of God, which can bring forth a thing of beauty in the midst of surrounding ugliness, brutality and evil. Nowhere is this more true than in the book of Lamentations.

This place is just a trailer for a film, Brandon. Our lives here. Heaven is like the movie. Except there's only one trailer before the movie. And the movie won't ever end.

There will be people who will not be consoled for the loss of a cause which they believed to be holy.

I'd like a drink. I desire to forget life. Life is a hideous invention by somebody I don't know. It doesn't last, and it's good for nothing. You break your neck simply living.

A people, like stars, are entitled to eclipse. All is well, provided the light returns and the eclipse does not become endless night. Dawn and resurrection are synonymous. The reappearance of the light is the same as the survival of the soul.

There were corpses here and there and pools of blood. I remember seeing a butterfly flutter up and down that street. Summer does not abdicate.

So struggled beneath its anguish this unhappy soul. Eighteen hundred years before this unfortunate man, the mysterious Being, in whom are aggregated all the sanctities and all the sufferings of humanity, He also, while the olive trees were shivering in the fierce breathe of the Infinite, had long put away from his hand the fearful chalice that appeared before him, dripping with shadow and running over with darkness, in the star-filled depths.

In the neighborhood she was called the Lark. People like figurative names and were happy to give a nickname to this child, no larger than a bird, trembling, frightened, and shivering, first to wake every morning in the house and the village, always in the street or in the fields before dawn. Except that the poor lark never sang.