Quote

When God's hand is bent to strike, it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God but to fall out of the hands of the living God is a horror beyond our expression, beyond our imagination.

John Donne

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John Donne
Died: 1631
Died: March 31
Lawyer
Pastor
Poet
Politician
Songwriter
Translator
Writer
London
England
Very Rev. John Donne
Imagination
Hand
Bent
Living
Strike
Fall
Fearful
Hands
Strikes
Thing
Horror
Beyond
Expression

More quotes by John Donne

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Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.
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This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.
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Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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My love though silly is more brave.
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I have done one braver thing than all the Worthies did, and yet a braver thence doth spring, which is, to keep that hid.
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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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We love and understand talent we wish it be within us. The truly gifted, those exceptional few, must wait for the world to catch up.
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O Lord, never suffer us to think that we can stand by ourselves, and not need thee.
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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.
John Donne
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That which attempts to elevate the ugly to the level of beauty becomes neither but an obscenity.
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
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Death, thou shalt die.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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we give each other a smile with a future in it
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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.
John Donne
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Old grandsires talk of yesterday with sorrow, And for our children we reserve tomorrow.
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Twice or thrice had I loved thee before I knew thy face or name, so in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, angels affect us oft, and worshiped be.
John Donne
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Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
John Donne