Light the incense! You have to burn to be fragrant.
At the end of our lives we hope we will look back and, like an incense stick completely burned away, will have poured forth all our fragrance into the world.
Let your thoughts be psalms, your prayers incense, and your breath praise.
Better do a good deed near at home than go far away to burn incense.
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
No ashes are lighter than those of incense, and few things burn out sooner.
The groves were God's first temples.
Nothing is true but Love, nor aught of worth; Love is the incense which doth sweeten earth.
I do not feel like writing verses; but as I light my perfume burner with myrrh and jasmine incense, they suddenly burgeon from my heart, like flowers in a garden.
Orchidbreathing incense into butterfly's wings
I take a baths all the time. I'll put on some music and burn some incense and just sit in the tub and think, Wow, life is great right now.
The praise of a fool is incense to the wisest of us . . .
...you meditate and you got the candles, you got the incense and you've been chanting, and all of a sudden you hear this voice: 'Write this down'
The green earth sends her incense up. From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewey cup She pours her sacred wine.
I'm in awe of the universe, but I don't necessarily believe there's an intelligence or agent behind it. I do have a passion for the visual in religious rituals, though, even though they may be completely empty and bereft of substance. The incense is powerful and provocative, whether Buddhist or Catholic.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.
One grain of incense with devotion offer'd 'S beyond all perfumes of Sabaean spices.
You might sooner get lightning out of incense smoke than true action or passion out of your modern English religion.
I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel, my morning incense, and my evening meal, the sweets of hasty pudding.
In Nepal, the phenomenon is reversed. Time is a stick of incense that burns without being consumed. One day can seem like a week; a week, like months. Mornings stretch out and crack their spines with the yogic impassivity of house cats. Afternoons bulge with a succulent ripeness, like fat peaches. There is time enough to do everything - write a letter, eat breakfast, read the paper, visit a shrine or two, listen to the birds, bicycle downtown to change money, buy postcards, shop for Buddhas - and arrive home in time for lunch.
I like cinnamon rolls, but I don't always have time to make a pan. That's why I wish they would sell cinnamon roll incense. After all I'd rather light a stick and have my roommate wake up with false hopes.
It is by far the most elegant worship, hardly excepting the Greek mythology. What with incense, pictures, statues, altars, shrines, relics, and the real presence, confession, absolution, - there is something sensible to grasp at. Besides, it leaves no possibility of doubt; for those who swallow their Deity, really and truly, in transubstantiation, can hardly find any thing else otherwise than easy of digestion.
All philanthropy ... is only a savory fumigation burning at the mouth of a sewer. This incense offering makes the air more endurable to passers-by, but it does not hinder the infection in the sewer from spreading.
Men professing godliness offer their bodies upon Satan's altar, and burn the incense of tobacco to his satanic majesty. Does this statement seem severe? The offering must be presented to some deity. Since God is pure and holy, and will accept nothing defiling in its character, He refuses this expensive, filthy, and unholy sacrifice; therefore we conclude that Satan is the one who claims the honor.
I loved every second of Catholic church. I loved the sickly sweet rotting-pomegranate smells of the incense. I loved the overwrought altar, the birdbath of holy water, the votive candles; I loved that there was a poor box, the stations of the cross rendered in stained glass on the windows.
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