Hem Of His Garment Quotes

Take off your shirt," I said, sitting up and pulling at the hem of the garment. "Why?" he asked, but sat up and obliged. I knelt in front of him, admiring his naked body. "Because I want to look at you," I said. He was beautifully made, with long, graceful bones and flat muscles that flowed smoothly from the curves of chest and shoulder to the slight concavities of belly and thigh. He raised his eyebrows. "Well then, fair's fair. Take off yours, then." He reached out and helped me squirm out of the wrinkled chemise, pushing it down over my hips. Once it was off, he held me by the waist, studying me with intense interest. I grew almost embarrassed as he looked me over. "Haven't you ever seen a naked woman before?" I asked. "Aye, but not one so close." His face broke into a broad grin. "And not one that's mine.

As a matter of fact, it is not a question of God’s intentions towards us; but it is a question of whether we see Him through the crowds, whether or not we see Him and say, “If I may but only touch the hem of His garment...” And so it is not about our capacity for goodness; but it is about our being able to simply see His intentions of goodness for us.

And, behold, a woman, which was diseased with an issue of blood twelve years, came behind him, and touched the hem of his garment: For she said within herself, If I may but touch his garment, I shall be whole. But Jesus turned him about, and when he saw her, he said, Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole. And the woman was made whole from that hour.

He is the most Shakespearean creature since Shakespeare. If Shakespeare could sing with myriad lips, Browning could stammer through a thousand mouths. [...] Yes, Browning was great. And as what will he be remembered? As a poet? Ah, not as a poet! He will be remembered as a writer of fiction, as the most supreme writer of fiction, it may be, that we have ever had. His sense of dramatic situation was unrivalled, and, if he could not answer his own problems, he could at least put problems forth, and what more should an artist do? Considered from the point of view of a creator of character he ranks next to him who made Hamlet. Had he been articulate, he might have sat beside him. The only man who can touch the hem of his garment is George Meredith. Meredith is a prose Browning, and so is Browning. He used poetry as a medium for writing in prose.

His head bent over hers; she could feel the rush of his unsettled exhalations. The hairs on his chest were not flat and straight, but softly curling. She wanted to brush her nose and lips across them. He smelled of soap, male skin, clean earth and meadow grass, and every breath of him made her feel warm in places that hadn't been warm in years. When the placket was finally unfastened, Mr. Ravenel raised his arms and let the shirt settle over his head, wincing as the neat row of stitches at his side was strained. Phoebe reached up to tug at the hem of the garment. Her knuckles inadvertently grazed the dark fleece on his chest, and her stomach did an odd little flip. From the surface of her skin down to the marrow of her bones, her entire body was alive with sensation.

But it was something else too, MacFarlane said. It was a denial, but it was also the truth. Peter really did not know who Jesus was, did not really know, and neither do any of us really know who Jesus is either. Beyond all we can find to say about him and believe about him, he remains always beyond our grasp, except maybe once in a while the hem of his garment. We should never forget that. We can love him, we can learn from him, but we can come to know him only by following him—by searching for him in his church, in his Gospels, in each other. That was the sermon I heard anyway, and I remember thinking that if it were not for all the reasons I have for living where I do, I could imagine moving a thousand miles just to be near where I could hear truth spoken like that.

If a child or a brother or a sister or a loved one of yours strays from the church in terms of faith practice and morality, as long as you continue to love that person, and hold him or her in union and forgiveness, he or she is touching the hem of the garment, is held to the Body of Christ, and is forgiven by God, irrespective of his or her official external relationship to the church and Christian morality. Your touch is Christ’s touch. When you love someone, unless that someone actively rejects your love and forgiveness, she or he is sustained in salvation. And this is true even beyond death. If someone close to you dies in a state which, externally at least, has her or him at odds ecclesially and morally with the visible church, your love and forgiveness will continue to bind that person to the Body of Christ and continue to forgive that individual, even after death. One

My fingers and palms continued to skate over the goosebumps on his torso, as I explored his tight erect nipples until I felt desperate to see what he looked like underneath the fabric and grabbed the hem of his T-shirt. When I pulled it up his body Sawyer broke the kiss, panting roughly and dragged the soft cotton garment over his head. "So fucking hot," he muttered, bunching it roughly between his hands and tossing it away to one side, as his hands immediately reconnected with the sides of my face and sifted back into my hair. Tilting my head up again, he murmured, "Where were we?" before he kissed me as I'd never been kissed before.

On August 10, 1984, my plane landed in Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan. There were no skyscrapers here. The blue domes of the mosques and the faded mountains were the only things rising above the adobe duvals (the houses). The mosques came alive in the evening with multivoiced wailing: the mullahs were calling the faithful to evening prayer. It was such an unusual spectacle that, in the beginning, I used to leave the barracks to listen – the same way that, in Russia, on spring nights, people go outside to listen to the nightingales sing. For me, a nineteen-year-old boy who had lived his whole life in Leningrad, everything about Kabul was exotic: enormous skies – uncommonly starry – occasionally punctured by the blazing lines of tracers. And spread out before you, the mysterious Asian capital where strange people were bustling about like ants on an anthill: bearded men, faces darkend by the sun, in solid-colored wide cotton trousers and long shirts. Their modern jackets, worn over those outfits, looked completely unnatural. And women, hidden under plain dull garments that covered them from head to toe: only their hands visible, holding bulging shopping bags, and their feet, in worn-out shoes or sneakers, sticking out from under the hems. And somewhere between this odd city and the deep black southern sky, the wailing, beautifully incomprehensible songs of the mullahs. The sounds didn't contradict each other, but rather, in a polyphonic echo, melted away among the narrow streets. The only thing missing was Scheherazade with her tales of A Thousand and One Arabian Nights ... A few days later I saw my first missile attack on Kabul. This country was at war.

Walk in the shadow of the Almighty. Grab onto the hem of His garment and find the healing and grace to go where He leads. In that place you will be equipped to do the impossible. There you can do all things through Christ who strengthens you.

Trying to clothe ourselves in the virtues outside of the fitting room of being chosen, holy, and loved will prove a maddening endeavor of dress-up. We may look the part in the moment, but inevitably the tight collars of moralism and crooked hems of behavior management will eventually give us away. There is no need for such striving when words like “I have also loved you” have already been spoken. It’s this love of Christ that lets us out of the suffocating garments of do-goodism for approval, giving us the grace to obey God’s commands while we revel in His affection. Keeping His commands is not grievous; it’s a delightful expression of our love for God, because He has first loved us (1 John 4:19; 5:3).

My God! How could you allow this woman to get worse, when she is doing all she can to get better? What in the world is going on? Have you ever wondered the same in your sin predicament as you make valiant efforts to overcome temptation? Have you gone to teacher-after-teacher, and pastor-after-pastor, searching for a remedy to your addiction to drugs, stealing, illicit sex, liquor, gambling, or evil entertainments? Did you get better, or did you get progressively worse over the years? Well, this woman, now an outcast from Jewish society due to the fact that her vaginal bleeding made her ceremonially unclean, and excluded from attendance of temple services and many other regular activities, knew that the Master was nearby. With all the faith she had, she crawled through the crowd so she…could…just…touch, the blue hem/tassel of His garment. She believed that if she could simply touch the border of His garment. Which represented the Throne of God, and His holy Ten Commandment Law (Exodus 24:9-10; Ezekiel 1:26; Numbers 15:37-41), she would be whole. So, that she did!

She trembles with fear and cries, “It was I.  I have suffered from an issue of blood for twelve years!  When I heard You were here I thought if I could just touch the hem of Your garment I would be healed.  So, I fought my way through the crowd.  And as I touched the hem of Your garment, the blood dried up and I was healed!  Immediately!”       “Daughter.”  He places a hand on her shoulder and another under her chin bidding her to look up.  As she looks into His eyes He replies, “Your faith has made you well.  Go in peace.

Sacraments are that literal, that physical. Salvation is very physical. If the woman with the hemorrhage had touched the hem of St. Peter’s garment instead of Christ’s, her faith alone would not have healed her until it was joined to His body by her touch.—Unless God had willed to heal her that way, of course. God can work outside his sacraments, and often does. There

Wherever He entered into villages, cities, or in the country, they laid the sick in the marketplaces, and begged Him that they might just touch the hem of His garment. And as many as touched Him were made well (Mark 6:56). When the Good News of the nature and power of God gets out, hope is born and faith is conceived. This same Good News has not lost its power today. Healing is part of the Kingdom message.

O Christian, give not place to Satan, no, not an inch, in his first motions.  He that is a beggar and a modest one with out doors, will command the house if let in.  Yield at first, and thou givest away thy strength to resist him in the rest; when the hem is worn, the whole garment will ravel out, if it be not mended by timely repentance.

Lillian, Jesus didn’t reject Thomas. He chose him, knowing everthin’. He loved him. He met him exactly where he was— even to the point of holdin’’ out His ruined hands so that Thomas could touch them, raisin’ up the hem of His garments to uncover His broken feet, and moving His very clothes out of the way so that the ragged wound on His side was exposed to all. If my God can do that for a doubter, I know— oh, Lillian,I’m completely convinced— He loves you too. Even while it’s hard for you to trust Him. Don’t give up hopin’ in Him.

Cass didn’t fight it when Falco leaned in and kissed her. She didn’t resist as he tipped her gently backward and laid her down on the wooden bottom of the batèla. Just be who you are. Easy to say, but so difficult to do. Falco unfolded a blanket over her. “So you don’t get cold,” he said. “What’s going to keep you warm?” Cass asked softly, reaching up to tousle his hair. Falco laughed. “Trust me, I’m plenty warm.” “Prove it,” Cass said, pulling him down to her level. She pressed her lips to his, surprised at her own bravery, emboldened by the way his body responded to hers. They fell back deeper into the boat, its creaky wooden sides offering privacy in the already-dark night. He kissed her harder, his tongue exploring her lips and mouth in soft circles. The small boat rocked underneath her, swaying with the gentle current of the canal. The weight of his chest pressed down on her rib cage, her hip bones pressed against his, even through the many layers of garments she wore. She felt a rush of warmth, a heat that made her forget everything else that had been bothering her. It was like she had slipped outside of her skin, and that only her soul, her essence, lay in the boat with Falco. As Falco traced her hairline with his lips, he reached behind her back and loosened the ties of her bodice. He stroked the bare skin of her upper back. Cass couldn’t believe how warm his hands felt. She let her own hands wander beneath the hem of his shirt. Her fingers traced his muscles--first the stomach and then the chest. His pounding heartbeat accelerated as they kissed. Her own blood raced through her veins, trying to keep up. Again Cass thought of the way the body was a single thing, yet was made up of so many different parts all working together. She could barely believe this was happening. She felt like a stranger, a wild, impulsive stranger. “Cassandra,” Falco murmured. He reached up and twisted all her hair into one of his hands, pulling it slightly as he held it behind her head. His lips made their way across her cheek and her jaw and her brow bone. His other hand caressed her left leg through her cotton stocking. His fingers followed the repeating diamond pattern embossed into her leather garter and then stroked the soft skin just above it. Cass felt transported by his touch, his soft voice, and the mist rising off the canals. Everything felt otherworldly. It was a dream or a hallucination. Any moment now she’d wake up tucked beneath her covers with Slipper snuggled against her chest. Just let go.

brought to Him all who were sick, and begged Him that they might only touch the hem of His garment. And as many as touched it were made perfectly well. —Matthew 14:35–36

I smell liniment,” she said, perplexed. “The kind we use on the horses.” “Mr. Bloom sent up a pot of it from the stables and demanded that we apply a poultice to my ribs. I didn’t dare refuse.” “Oh.” Her brow cleared. “It works very well,” she assured him. “It heals the horses’ pulled muscles in half the usual time.” “I’m sure it does.” A rueful grin crossed his lips. “If only the camphor weren’t burning a hole through my hide.” “Did Sutton apply it full strength?” she asked with a frown. “That concentration was intended for horses--he should have cut it with oil or white wax.” “No one told him.” “It should be removed right away. Let me help.” She began to reach for him but paused uncertainly. The poultice was bound to him beneath his white nightshirt. Either she would have to pull up the shirt and reach beneath the hem, or she would have to unbutton the placket down the front. Seeing her uneasiness, Devon smiled and shook his head. “I’ll wait until Sutton returns.” “No, I’m perfectly able to do it,” Kathleen insisted, pink-cheeked. “I was a married woman, after all.” “So worldly,” Devon mocked gently, his gaze caressing. Her lips pressed together in a determined line. Trying to appear composed, she began on the placket of buttons. The garment was made of exceptionally smooth white linen, the fabric heavy with a slight sheen. “This is a very fine nightshirt,” she remarked inanely. “I wasn’t even aware that I owned one, until Sutton brought it out.” Kathleen paused, perplexed. “What do you wear to sleep, if not a nightshirt?” Devon gave her a speaking glance, one corner of his mouth quirking. Her jaw went slack as his meaning sank in. “Does that shock you?” he asked, a glint of laughter in his eyes. “Certainly not. I was already aware that you’re a barbarian.