We Know Well Only What We Are

That Is The Mystery Of Grace: It Never Comes Too Late.

The Arrogance Of Poets Is Only A Defense; Doubt Gnaws The Greatest Among Them; They Need Our Testimony To Escape Despair.

The Man Who Partakes In The Breaking Of The Bread Dares To Build His House On The Very Core Of Love. He Becomes, As It Were, Godlike, But Regardless Of The Strength He Derives From It, His Free Will Remains. We Are Always Free To Disown This Immense Grace, To Abuse It. The Greatest Love May Be Betrayed. Fed On The Living Bread, We Nevertheless Conceal A Part Of Ourselves Which Longs For Swine's Food.

If You Would Tell Me The Heart Of A Man, Tell Me Not What He Reads, But What He Rereads.

Human Love Is Often But The Encounter Of Two Weaknesses.