Quotes
Quotes about Wit
Parents are often so busy with the physical rearing of children that they miss the glory of parenthood, just as the grandeur of the trees is lost when raking leaves.
The most important thing that parents can teach their children is how to get along without them.
A young man's ambition is to get along in the world and make a place for himself-half your life goes that way, till you're 45 or 50. Then, if you're lucky, you make terms with life, you get released. -Robert Penn Warren.
The trouble with children is that they are not returnable.
The soul is healed by being with children.
Life often presents us with a choice of evils, rather than of goods.
I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
When you make an efficient choice in moments of indecision, you establish more effectiveness within a given time span, saving energy and stress. That's a time shift. William Jennings Bryan Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved. -Doc Childre.
Life often presents us with a choice of evils rather than of goods.
The human race is faced with a cruel choice: work or daytime television. â¢Anonymous Given a choice between two theories, take the one which is funnier.
If we could raise one generation with unconditional love, there would be no Hitlers. We need to teach the next generation of children from Day One that they are responsible for their lives. Mankind's greatest gift, also its greatest curse, is that we have free choice. We can make our choices built from love or from fear.
As human beings, we are endowed with freedom of choice, and we cannot shuffle off our responsibility upon the shoulders of God or nature. We must shoulder it ourselves. It is up to us.
Every person, all the events of your life are drawn there because you have them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you.
The human race is faced with a cruel choice: work or daytime television.
There is a green hill far away, Without a city wall, Where the dear Lord was crucified Who died to save us all.
Hail, O bleeding Head and wounded, With a crown of thorns surrounded, Buffeted, and bruised and battered, Smote with reed by striking shattered, Face with spittle vilely smeared! Hail, whose visage sweet and comely, Marred by fouling stains and homely, Changed as to its blooming color, All now turned to deathly pallor, Making heavenly hosts affeared!
Lovely was the death Of Him whose life was Love! Holy with power, He on the thought-benighted Skeptic beamed Manifest Godhead.
All His glory and beauty come from within, and there He delights to dwell, His visits there are frequent, His conversation sweet, His comforts refreshing; and His peace passing all understanding.
Into the woods, my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent, Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to Him, The little gray leaves were kind to Him: The thorn-tree had a mind to Him, When into the woods He came.
Near, so very near to God, Nearer I cannot be; For in the person of his Son I am as near as he. So dear, so very dear to God, More dear I cannot be; The love wherewith he loves the Son - Such is his love to me.
Christ beside me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ within me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me.
Therefore, friends, As far as to the sepulchre of Christ-- Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross We are impressed and engaged to fight-- Fourthwith a power of English shall we levy, Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb To chase these pagans in those holy fields Over whose acres walked those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed For our advantage on the bitter cross.
And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thoughts; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the waves In roarings round the coral reef.
Now it is not good for the Christian's health To hustle the Aryan brown, For the Christian riles and the Aryan smiles, And it weareth the Christian down. And the end of the fight is a tombstone white With the name of the late deceased-- And the epitaph drear: "A fool lies here Who tried to hustle the East."
Yes,--rather plunge me back in pagan night, And take my chance with Socrates for bliss, Than be the Christian of a faith like this, Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway, And in a convert mourns to lose a prey.
