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My father was a man of love. He always loved me to death. He worked hard in the fields, but my father never hit me. Never. I don’t ever remember a really cross, unkind word from my father.
Death may be the King of terrors… but Jesus is the King of kings!
Death would not be called bad, O people, if one knew how to truly die.
Old age is a tyrant, who forbids, under pain of death, the pleasures of youth.
But when I lose my temper, I find it difficult to forgive myself. I feel I’ve failed. I can be calm in a crisis, in the face of death or things that hurt badly. I don’t get hysterical, which may be masochistic of me.
On the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done as easily lying down .
Watching a peaceful death of a human being reminds us of a falling star one of a million lights in a vast sky that flares up for a brief moment only to disappear into the endless night forever.
To some extent I liken slavery to death.
Death is not natural for a state as it is for a human being, for whom death is not only necessary, but frequently even desirable.
It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure on the world.