Death is terrifying, but it would be even more terrifying to find out that you are going to live forever and never die.
When performing an autopsy, even the most inveterate spiritualist would have to question where the soul is.
We must die alone. To the very verge of the stream our friends may accompany us; they may bend over us, they may cling to us there; but that one long wave from the sea of eternity washes up to the lips, sweeps us from the shore, and we go forth alone! In that untried and utter solitude, then, what can there be for us but the pulsation of that assurance, "I am not alone, because the Father is with me!
The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
I do so hate to leave this world.
These have not the hope to die.
Out of the chill and the shadow, into the thrill and the shine. Out of the dearth and the famine, into the fulness divine.
Buffalo Bill's defunct
All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
There were some who said that a man at the point of death was more free than all others, because death breaks every bond, and over the dead the united world has no power.
It is by no means a fact that death is the worst of all evils; when it comes it is an alleviation to mortals who are worn out with sufferings.
It is abundantly evident that, however natural it may be for us to feel sorrow at the death of our relatives, that sorrow is an error and an evil, and we ought to overcome it. There is no need to sorrow for them, for they have passed into a far wider and happier life. If we sorrow for our own fancied separation from them, we are in the first place weeping over an illusion, for in truth they are not separated from us; and secondly, we are acting selfishly, because we are thinking more of our own apparent loss than of their great and real gain.
O harmless Death! whom still the valiant brave, The wise expect, the sorrowful invite, And all the good embrace, who know the grave A short dark passage to eternal light.
Children and old people and the parents in between should be able to live together, in order to learn how to die with grace, together. And I fear that this is purely utopian fantasy.
Death, whether it regards ourselves or others, appears less terrible in war than at home. The cries of women and children, friends in anguish, a dark room, dim tapers, priests and physicians, are what affect us the most on the death-bed. Behold us already more than half dead and buried.
That death is best which comes appropriately at a ripe age.
The moment in which the spirit meets death is perhaps like the moment in which it is embraced in sleep. I suppose it never happened to any one to be conscious of the immediate transition from the waking to the sleeping state.
Death is not the worst sorrow.
It is not I who die, when I die, but my sin and misery.
Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.
All I desire for my own burial, is not to be buried alive; but how or where, I think, must be entirely indifferent to every rational creature.
Oh well, no matter what happens, there's always death.
Death, which hateth and destroyeth a man, is believed; God, which hath made him and loves him, is always deferred.
Always be thou prepared, and so live that death may never find thee unprepared.
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