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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #prophet
Unable and crippled I am As I gaze into the vastness The vastness that harbors your praise And glories of the best of creation... If I tried to spell.. A drop of ink from your love Ma quill would burn in shame for your love match no words...ya rasoolullah! ↗
Maybe that's the way to tell the dangerous men from the good ones. A dreamer of the day is dangerous when he believes that others are less: less than their own best selves and certainly less than he is. They exist to follow and flatter him, and to serve his purposes. A true prophet, I suppose, is like a good parent. A true prophet sees others, not himself. He helps them define their own half-formed dreams, and puts himself at their service. He is not diminished as they become more. He offers courage in one hand and generosity in the other. ↗
When the Prophet (pbuh) showed generosity, he expected nothing in return. Many rich men, especially kings, give charity, hoping not for a monetary return, but instead for respect, love, admiration, loyalty, or maybe even just an obsequious kiss on the hand. The Prophet (pbuh) expected none of these things. Or described in the words of a poet: ~ You see him, when you go to him, with a cheerful expression on his face, Making it seem that you are the one giving him that which you ask for.~ ↗
We can always be sure of one thing—that the messengers of discomfort and sacrifice will be stoned and pelted by those who wish to preserve at all costs their own contentment. This is not a lesson that is confined to the Testaments. ↗
The industrial towns were far away, a smudge of smoke and misery hidden by the curve of the earth's surface. Down here it was still the England I had known in my childhood: the railway-cuttings smothered in wild flowers, the deep meadows where the great shining horses browse and meditate, the slow-moving streams bordered by willows, the green bosoms of the elms, the larkspurs in the cottage gardens; and then the huge peaceful wilderness of outer London, the barges on the miry river, the familiar streets, the posters telling of cricket matches and Royal weddings, the men in bowler hats, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, the red buses, the blue policemen—all sleeping the deep, deep sleep of England, from which I sometimes fear that we shall never wake till we are jerked out of it by the roar of bombs. ↗
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