Sentences with phrase «house upon the rock»

The wise man built his house upon the rock The wise man built his house upon the rock The wise man built his house upon the rock And the rain came a-tumbling down

He and I were talking about Jesus» parable about building your house upon a rock, thus giving a solid foundation, when he asked an innocent question that had deep connotations: «What about weathering?»

The wise man builds his house upon the rock, and the rains came down and the floods rose up, and the house on the rock stood firm.

This twentieth century is desperately in need of stabilizing forces, and in personal character one of the primary tests is the ability to realize in experience an ideal presented long ago: «Everyone therefore that heareth these words of mine, and doeth them, shall be likened unto a wise man, who built his house upon the rock.»

The wise man built his house upon the rock, the foolish man built his house upon the sand, and the rain came down, the rain came down and floods came up and the house on the rock stood firm, and the house on the sand went splat!

The Wise Man Built His House upon the Rock These resources will support your delivery of the National Curriculum for Music.

Not exact matches

And when a flood came, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and it could not shake it; for it was founded on a rock.

[48] He is like to a man building a house, who digged deep, and laid the foundation upon a rock.

And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock

To the fisherman the Kingdom of God was like a «net cast into the sea»; to a farmer it was like the «sower who went forth to sow»; to the housewife like a bit of leaven or yeast; to the merchant like a «pearl of great price»; to the builder like «a house builded upon the rock,» etc..

A few days after our breakfast, I visit her current home base, a pop - up at Space 15 Twenty, a bright, airy building in Hollywood with rows of glass cases housing hunks upon hunks of gorgeous rock.

However, unlike traditional Chinese landscapes, Lam builds upon the scene by adding objects such as rocks, houses and human figurines, inviting viewers to take a closer look at the details.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,

I did my finals at Alexandra Palace and while the pigeons took aim at my tax paper, I was commenting on IRC v Ramsay (then between the Court of Appeal and the Lords), leading to the seminal decision of the House of Lords in 1981 in relation to tax avoidance schemes and upon the rocks of which many a tax avoidance scheme has since been wrecked (see [1982] AC 300, [1981] 1 All ER 865).