You, the strong, have I loved, though the marks of your iron hoofs are yet upon my flesh.

Hate is a dead thing. Who of you would be a tomb?

In the autumn I gathered all my sorrows and buried them in my garden. And when April returned and spring came to wed the earth, there grew in my garden beautiful flowers unlike all other flowers. And my neighbors came to behold them, and they all said to me, "When autumn comes again, at seeding time, will you not give us of the seeds of these flowers that we may have them in our gardens?"

Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations?

Love prides itself not only in the one who loves, but also in the beloved.

When you reach the heart of life you shall find beauty in all things, even in the eyes that are blind to beauty.

Like sheaves of corn it gathers you unto itself. It threshes you to make you naked. It sifts you to free you from your husks. It grinds you to whiteness. It kneads you until you are pliant. And then it assigns you to its sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's Heart.