In The Mass The Blood Of Christ

Except He Be Willing, Man Cannot Believe.

He Who Made Thee Is Made In Thee. He Is Made In Thee Through Whom You Were Made.... Give Milk, O Mother, To Him Who Is Our Food; Give Milk To The Bread That Comes Down From Heaven.

A Brotherly Person Rejoices On My Account When He Approves Me, But When He Disapproves, He Is Loving Me. To Such People I Will Reveal Myself. They Will Take Heart From My Good Traits, And Sigh With Sadness At My Bad Ones. My Good Points Are Instilled By You And Are Your Gifts. My Bad Points Are My Faults And Your Judgements On Them. Let Them Take Heart From The One And Regret The Other. Let Both Praise And Tears Ascend In Your Sight From Brotherly Hearts, Your Censers. ...but You Lord...make Perfect My Imperfections.

Love Is A Temporary Madness. It Erupts Like An Earthquake And Then Subsides. And When It Subsides You Have To Make A Decision. You Have To Work Out Whether Your Roots Have Become So Entwined Together That It Is Inconceivable That You Should Ever Part. Because This Is What Love Is. Love Is Not Breathlessness, It Is Not Excitement, It Is Not The Promulgation Of Promises Of Eternal Passion. That Is Just Being In Love Which Any Of Us Can Convince Ourselves We Are. Love Itself Is What Is Left Over When Being In Love Has Burned Away, And This Is Both An Art And A Fortunate Accident.

Only He Who Made Man Makes Man Happy.