Sonnet to Our Lord on the Cross

I am not moved to love you, O my God,
That I might hope in promised heaven to dwell;
Nor am I moved by fear of pain in hell
To turn from sin and follow where you trod.
You move me, Lord, broken beneath the rod,
Or stretched out on the cross, as nails compel
Your hand to twitch. It moves me that we sell
To mockery and death, your precious blood.
It is, O Christ, your love which moves me so,
That my love rests not on a promised prize;
Nor holy fear on threat of endless woe;
It is not milk and honey, but the flow
Of blood from blessed wounds before my eyes,
That waters my buried soul and makes it grow.

To live is to change, and to be perfect is to have changed often.

John Henry Newman

Since in seeking you, my God, I seek a happy life, let me seek you so that my soul may live, for my body draws life from my soul and my soul draws life from you.

St. Augustine

futurefantastic:

battybatty:

Date a guy who opens your jars and wine bottles for you

"please. please stop opening all my jars and wine bottles. I’m not ready for them yet. you’re just letting it all go bad. my whole house smells like wine and pickles and I can’t live like this"

(via sicutcervus)