Browsing Topic Best Weeping Quotes

Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter into the places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish. Compassion challenges us to cry out with those in misery, to mourn with those who are lonely, to weep with those in tears. Compassion requires us to be weak with the weak, vulnerable with the vulnerable, and powerless with the powerless. Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human.

Those who don’t know how to weep with their whole heart, don’t know how to laugh either.

Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that came down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Lúthien

There is no laughter except that it is eventually followed up with weeping.

One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets himself be tamed.

The tears, when they come to some men, are worse than beatings. They’re wounded worse by sobbing, men like that, than they are by boots and batons. Tears begin in the heart, but some of us deny the heart so often, and for so long, that when it speaks we hear not one but a hundred sorrows in the heartbreak. We know that crying is a good and natural thing. We know that crying isn’t a weakness, but a kind of strength. Still, the weeping rips us root by tangled root from the earth, and we crash like fallen trees when we cry.

I’d much rather be a woman than a man. Women can cry, they can wear cute clothes, and they’re the first to be rescued off sinking ships.

For one drop calls another down, till we are drowned in seas of grief.

All things are cause for either laughter or weeping.

Sweet weeping baby Jesus he has a six-pack to beat all six-packs!

Stop all this weeping, swallow your pride/ You will not die, its not poison -Tombstone Blues

When rowan leaves are dank and rusting And rowan berries red as blood, When in my palm the hangman’s thrusting The final nail with bony thud, When, over the foul flooding river, Upon the wet grey height, I toss Before my land’s grim looks, and shiver As I swing here upon the cross, Then, through the blood and weeping, stretches My dying sight to space remote; I see upon the river’s reaches Christ sailing to me in a boat.

Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe.

Cries of despair, misery, sobbing grief are a kind of wealth.

POETIf not in a place, where are the People weeping?LIBERALThey creep weeping in the face, not place.POETIs it something with which we may copeThe weeping, the creeping, the peepee-ing, the peeping?

The last song was so deep and raw and pure that I could not escape. It was as if the people were singing in between the notes, weeping and joyful at the same time, and I felt like their voices or something was rocking me in its bosom, holding me like a scared kid, and I opened up to that feeling-and it washed over me.

I was a newborn vampire, weeping at the beauty of the night.

But Ship Who Sang remains my favorite story. I really rocked folks with that and still cannot read it aloud myself without weeping at the end

Laughter and weeping, the Greek masks of comedy and tragedy, mark the extremes of a continuous spectrum; both provide channels for the overflow of emotion; both are

The world is going to be less biologically rich for quite some time in the future. We are always weeping that we live in such a diminished world, but we are experiencing a biologically rich world compared to what the future will look like. Bearing witness to that is a beautiful gift.

There should be weeping at a man’s birth, not at his death.

Only a war that serves no conceivable national interest gets the New York Time’s endorsement. Liberals warm to the idea of American mothers weeping for their sons, but only if their deaths will not make America any safer.

He found himself weeping. Not for the future or for the emperor. These were the tears of a man who saw before himself a masterpiece. True art was more than beauty; it was more than technique. It was not just imitation. It was boldness, it was contrast, it was subtlety.

She was made up of more, too. She was the books she read in the library. She was the flower in the brown bowl. Part of her life was made from the tree growing rankly in the yard. She was the bitter quarrels she had with her brother whom she loved dearly. She was Katie’s secret, despairing weeping. She was the shame of her father stumbling home drunk. She was all of these things and of something more…It was what God or whatever is His equivalent puts into each soul that is given life – the one different thing such as that which makes no two fingerprints on the face of the earth alike.

Wan February with weeping cheer,Whose cold hand guides the youngling yearDown misty roads of mire and rime,Before thy pale and fitful faceThe shrill wind shifts the clouds apaceThrough skies the morning scarce may climb.Thine eyes are thick with heavy tears,But lit with hopes that light the year’s.

[Short Talk on Sylvia Plath] Did you see her mother on television? She said plain, burned things. She said I thought it an excellent poem but it hurt me. She did not say jungle fear. She did not say jungle hatred wild jungle weeping chop it back chop it. She said self-government she said end of the road. She did not say humming in the middle of the air what you came for chop.

Child of mortality, whence comest thou? Why is thy countenance sad, and why are thine eyes red with weeping?

The truth is, laughter always sounds more perfect than weeping. Laughter flows in a violent riff and is effortlessly melodic. Weeping is often fought, choked, half strangled, or surrendered to with humiliation.

I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping, ashamed of my sentimentality and possible love.

Space is still filled with the noise of destruction and annihilation, the shouts of self-assurance and arrogance, the weeping of despair and helplessness. But round about the horizon the eternal realities stand silent in their age-old longing. There shines on them already the first mild light of the radiant fulfillment to come. From afar sound the first notes as of pipes and voices, not yet discernable as a song or melody. It is all far off still, and only just announced and foretold. But it is happening, today.

I have a face like a washrag. I sing love songs and carry steel. I would rather die than cry. I can’t stand hounds can’t live without them. I hang my head against the white refrigerator and want to scream like the last weeping of life forever but I am bigger than the mountains.

The happy married man dies in good stile at home, surrounded by his weeping wife and children. The old bachelor don’t die at all — he sort of rots away, like a pollywog’s tail.

Jesus wept, but He never complained.

Strange indeed is human nature. Here were these men, to whom murder was familiar, who again and again had struck down the father of the family, some man against whom they had no personal feeling, without one thought of compunction or of compassion for his weeping wife or helpless children, and yet the tender or pathetic in music could move them to tears.

I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard.