I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.
God's finger touched him, and he slept.
If you carefully consider what you want to be said of you in the funeral experience, you will find your definition of success.
Not by lamentations and mournful chants ought we to celebrate the funeral of a good man, but by hymns, for in ceasing to be numbered with mortals he enters upon the heritage of a diviner life.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal - every other affliction to forget: but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open - this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.
Secular humanists can sit around and talk about their love of humanity, but it doesn't stack up against a two-millennium-old funeral high mass.
Worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral.
I seldom go into a natural history museum without feeling as if I were attending a funeral.
I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it.
Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? It is because we are not the person involved.
Is death the last sleep? No, it is the last and final awakening.
Let the dead have the immortality of fame, but the living the immortality of love.
People will never forget how you made them feel.
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? Three treasures, love and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath; And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.
The Madiba song may have ended, but its melody lingers on.
Death is not the end Death can never be the end. Death is the road. Life is the traveller. The Soul is the Guide ... Our mind thinks of death. Our heart thinks of life Our soul thinks of Immortality
Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys.
He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man.
Funeral pomp is more for the vanity of the living than for the honor of the dead.
When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.
The gods conceal from men the happiness of death, that they may endure life
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