© 2014 French-speaking Association of Readers of the Urantia Book
Thought is a bird of space which in the cage of words will perhaps be able to spread its wings, but not fly.
You speak when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts.
He who can put his finger on what separates good from evil is the same one who can touch the hems of God’s robe.
Desire is half life. Indifference is half death.
You are good when you walk firmly toward your goal with a fearless step. Yet you are not bad when you limp toward it. Even those who limp do not go backward.
If you are hurt by someone else, you can forget the hurt. But if you hurt them, you will always remember it.
The strongest stone in a building is the lowest in the foundation.
Only he is great who transforms the voice of the wind into a song that his own love has made sweeter.
Between the shores of the oceans and the summit of the highest mountain is traced a secret road that you absolutely must travel before becoming one with the sons of the Earth.
The deeper sorrow cuts into your being, the more joy you will be able to contain.
The fanatic is a speaker, deaf as a post.
The root is a flower that brings forth glory.
Disagreement might be the shortest path between two opinions.
Your children: you can strive to be like them, but don’t try to make them like you.
He who wears his morality only as his best garment would be better off naked.
Everyone can hear but only sentient beings understand.
How generous is life for man, but how far man keeps himself from life!
In the fall, I gathered all my sorrows and buried them in my garden.
When April bloomed again and the earth and spring celebrated their wedding, my garden was strewn with splendid and exceptional flowers.
Pity is only justice amputated.
Our most sacred tears never seek our eyes.
Isn’t it strange to see us defend our mistakes more fiercely than our values?
You give little when you give away your possessions.
It’s when you give of yourself that you truly give.
Sadness is a high wall between two gardens.
Truly, the thirst for comfort murders the passion of the soul and goes laughing to its burial.
In friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born without words and are often shared in silent joy.
The flowers of spring are the dreams of winter told in the morning at the table of angels.
Khalil Gibran