Voice Of An Angel Quotes & Sayings

Near my feet is a glowing archway. The light is white and shimmery, like iridescent glitter, and it's so tall the top nearly brushes the ceiling. Inside, instead of seeing the cement wall of the basement, I'm looking at evenly spaced wooden pillars and a reed-mat floor. Standing on that mat is a woman with curves that would make a Playboy model jealous. She's wearing a long, butter yellow dress, and her white hair hangs down to her waist. She looks like an angel when she smiles at me, holding out her hands.
"Hudson, come with me." Her voice reminds me of the breeze rustling through the trees near the lake. Soft and subtle and calming. "Let me help you."
Did I die? Maybe the scratch on my side got infected. Maybe I've been slowly bleeding to death from internal injuries for the past week. Who knows? If this is death, if she's what's waiting for me on the other side, then fuck it. I'm letting go. — Erica Cameron

The simple shepherds heard the voice of an angel and found their Lamb; the wise men saw the light of a star and found their Wisdom. — Fulton J. Sheen

He fills me with horror and I do not hate him. How can I hate him, Raoul? Think of Erik at my feet, in the house on the lake, underground. He accuses himself, he curses himself, he implores my forgiveness! ... He confesses his cheat. He loves me! He lays at my feet an immense and tragic love ... He has carried me off for love! ... He has imprisoned me with him, underground, for love! ... But he respects me: he crawls, he moans, he weeps! ... And, when I stood up, Raoul, and told him that I could only despise him if he did not, then and there, give me my liberty ... he offered it ... he offered to show me the mysterious road ... Only ... only he rose too ... and I was made to remember that, though he was not an angel, nor a ghost, nor a genius, he remained the voice ... for he sang. And I listened ... and stayed! ... That night, we did not exchange another word. He sang me to sleep. — Gaston Leroux

Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"You told me once that you loved me because I was human," I said, my voice tiny. "Will you still
love me when I'm an angel? Even if I won't be human anymore?"
"Always," he said, green eyes bright. "Even if you stop loving me."
I felt myself begin to crumble and I left the armory and him sitting on the — Courtney Allison Moulton

Clary shut her eyes. You didn't say no to an angel, no matter what it had in mind. Her heart pounding, she sat floating in the darkness behind her eyelids, resolutely trying not to think of Jace. But his face appear against the blank screen of her closed eyelids anyway - not smiling at her but looking sidelong, and she could see the scar at his temple, the uneven curl at the corner of his mouth, and the silver line on his throat where Simon had bitten him - all the marks and flaws and imperfections that made up the person she loved most in the world. Jace. A bright light lit her vision to scarlet, and she fell back against the sand, wondering if she was going to pass out - or maybe she was dying - but she didn't want to die, not now that she could see Jace's face so clearly in front of her. She could almost hear his voice, too, saying her name, the way he'd whispered it at Renwick's, over and over again. Clary. Clary. Clary.
"Clary," Jace said. "Open your eyes. — Cassandra Clare

Well I've been calling myself Scarlet Pattinson for several weeks. Have you seen Robert Pattinson? Hottest. Man. Ever. And no, I don't care if that makes me a couger. He sings with the voice of an angel. Gods, I love when a man sings to me. You never did because your voice is terrrible." She shuddered in distaste. "I swear, its like a demon running its claws over brimsone. — Gena Showalter

The other Max looked at me, and her eyes narrowed. 'They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,' she said snidely. 'So I guess you're really sucking up.'
'Who are you?' I gasped, my eyes wide. 'You're an impostor!'
'No she isn't.' The little creepy one, Angel, turned to look at me. Her arm was still bleeding where Ari had bitten it. 'You are.'
I swallowed my anger. Who did she think she was, her and her stupid dog? I gave a concerned smile. 'But Angel,' I said, sincerity dripping from my voice, 'how can you say that? You know who I am.'
'I think I'm Angel,' she said. 'And my dog isn't stupid. You're the stupid one, to think that you could fool us. I can read minds, you idiot. — James Patterson

Where will I find you now that my heart is yours?
Where should I search? I don't know where to look.
You fill my heart with desire and love,
The perfume of the lotus, the grace of a dove.
But then the dove flies far, far away,
All that is left is a song for my harp strings to play.
A voice in my memories like an angel of grace,
Where can I find you? Do you know how I pray?
Where will I find you now that my love belongs to you?
Wherever your heart beats, I'm dreaming of you.
Now and forever my love belongs to you ...
Now and forever my love belongs to you ... — Bjorn Street

Many of us have had Oracle experiences, though we may not have called them that.
Have you had the feeling there's a guardian angel looking out for you? Or heard an inner
voice that is not your own? Gotten a profound insight that you would not have otherwise
considered? Had your prayers answered? Especially in an unexpected way? These are a
few of the ways that the invisible world guides us. — Cristina Smith

Face of an angel, voice of a serpent — Claire C. Riley

Theophilus Crowe's mobile phone played eight bars of "Tangled Up in Blue" in an irritating electronic voice that sounded like a choir of suffering houseflies, or Jiminy Cricket huffing helium, or, well, you know, Bob Dylan. — Christopher Moore

You belong to the biblical race of Nephilim. Your real father was an angel who fell from heaven. You're half mortal." The boy's dark eyes lifted, meeting Chauncey's. "Half fallen angel." Chauncey's tutor's voice drifted up from the recesses of his mind, reading passages from the Bible, telling of a deviant race created when angels cast from heaven mated with mortal women. A fearsome and powerful race. A chill that wasn't entirely revulsion crept through Chauncey. "Who are you? — Becca Fitzpatrick

And there is such honesty and innocence to her voice I want to hold her. The bedside lamplight is a rich golden color, and it is falling on her face in a way that makes it seem gilded. For a moment, L.D. looks to me like an angel. Another case of illusion only being the larger truth. — Elizabeth Berg

So much beauty in your being, Surely you are an angel sent down to me. Such warm eyes as you regard me, Surely to draw me into your pure heart. Such sweetness in your voice, Surely must be Heaven made. Such a tender embrace, Surely to offer me His strength in your arms. Such soft lips, Surely offering God's love. Such kindness, Surely to remind me be true. Such luck I have at Heaven sitting beside me, Surely to assure me of my Earthly duties as a man. Such amazing beauty, I see in you. Kate." I — Jennyfer Browne

Heaven, such as it is, is right here on earth. Behold: my revelation: I stand at the door in the morning, and lo, there is a newspaper, in sight like unto an emerald. And holy, holy, holy is the coffee, which was, and is, and is to come. And hark, I hear the voice of an angel round about the radio saying, "Since my baby left me I found a new place to dwell." And lo, after this I beheld a great multitude, which no man could number, of shoes. And after these things I will hasten unto a taxicab and to a theater, where a ticket will be given unto me, and lo, it will be a matinee, and a film that doeth great wonders. And when it is finished, the heavens will open, and out will cometh a rain fragrant as myrrh, and yea, I have an umbrella. — Sarah Vowell

As the Christian's sorrows multiply, his patience grows, until, with sweet, unruffled quiet, he can confront the ills of life, and, though inwardly wincing, can calmly pursue his way to the restful grave, while his old, harsh voice is softly cadenced into sweetest melody, like the faint notes of an angel's whispered song. As patience deepens, charity and sympathy increase. — George Horace Lorimer

How do you know me, girl? He asked, his voice caked with venom. There was movement from the curtains and the throng of vamps seemed to cry out as one, in a sound of pure surprise.
My head turned towards the figure of a young man. He looked like an angel, dressed in white and gold, but whether that was because he caused Petrel to stop or the flickering candlelight from the sconces above us, I couldn't say. — Cyrese Covelli

You're gonna fall now,' I heard Angel say in a normal voice. I swung my head to see gravely watching an Eraser who looked confused, paralyzed. Angel shifted her gaze to the water below. Fear entered the Eraser's eyes, and his wings folded. He dropped like a rock.
You're getting scary, you know that?'I said to Angel, not really kidding. I mean, making an Eraser drop right out of the sky just by telling him to - jeez. — James Patterson

Bringing the very heavens close enough to touch.
It was Zsadist.
His eyes closed, his head back, his mouth wide open, he sang.
The scarred one, the souless one, had the voice of an angel. — J.R. Ward

6And I saw another angel flying in midheaven, having an eternal gospel to proclaim to those who dwell on the earth, and to every nation and tribe and tongue and people, 7saying with a loud voice: "Fear God and give him glory, for the hour of his judgment has come, and worship the one who made the heaven and earth and sea and fountains of waters. — Ranko Stefanovic

I wouldn't have been sent back to help you," Tristan continued. "I wouldn't have been made an angel if it weren't important that you live, Ivy. I want you to be mine" -Ivy could hear the pain in his voice- "but you're not."
"I am!" she cried out loud.
"We're on different sides of a river," he said, "and it's a river that neither of us can cross. You were meant for somebody else. — Elizabeth Chandler

He heard a soft voice calling him and turned towards it, trying to focus the vision before him. It wasn't his mother. If he weren't so tired, he would have smiled. He hadn't expected to find an angel in Hell.
The angel, her image blurred, a whiteness surrounding her, would understand. The angel would know.
"Why couldn't she love me?" he asked. The angel's answer was garbled. He strained to understand the words, not all his senses failed him as he slipped back into the abyss on the edge of Hell.
And the angel knelt down beside the bed and wept. — Lorraine Heath

The chanting grew louder, deep male voice pumping.
She looked to the brothers, the tall, fierce men who were now part of her life. Wrath pivoted and put his arm around her. Together, they swayed to the rhythm that swelled, filling the air. The brothers were as one as they paid homage in their language, a single powerful entity.
But then, in a high, keening call, one voice broke out, lifting above the others, shooting higher and higher. The sound of the tenor was so clear, so pure, it brought shivers to the skin, a yearning warmth to the chest. The sweet notes blew the ceiling off with their glory, turning the chamber into cathedral, the brothers into a tabernacle.
Bringing the very heavens close enough to touch.
It was Zsadist.
His eys closed, his head back, his mouth wide open, he sang.
The scarred one, the soulless one, had the voice of an angel. — J.R. Ward

Portishead's production is just insane beats you would expect to be on a KRS-One album. But then there's this little white girl with an angel voice singing over it. It was a cool juxtaposition. I like 'It's A Fire.' That's a chill song with kind of a military drum thing going on, like a drummer boy. — Anders Holm

You're beautiful in battle," said Dimitri. His cold voice carried to me clearly, even above the roar of combat. "Like an avenging angel come to deliver the justice of heaven."
"Funny," I said, shifting my hold on the stake. "That is kind of why I'm here."
"Angels fall, Rose. — Richelle Mead

At the Slavemarket:
"How is her disposition?"
"Meek as meek can be; we tried training her in the care of sheep, but they bullied her, and drove her to tears."
Iayd turned to Fudail's henchman Falih. Falih was a bald, fat man charged with keeping the slaves in line. His face bore scars that seemed to indicate that he had just recently tried to rob an eagle nest whilst the eagle mother was still at home. His legs stood knock-kneed and he held his groin as if something serious was amiss with the heirlooms entrusted him.
"I swear to you, she is an angel sent to earth to spread kindness," Falih said, his voice somewhat out of pitch.
Something must be wrong, thought Iayd. — August Renfelt

He loved her way: acting casual, working like a Trojan, singing like an angel. Not
"angelically." The voice of an angel. Winged, lethal, close to the sun. — Ann-Marie MacDonald

In 1846 on of his Academy exhibits was a painting called The Angel Standing in the Sun. Turner found this passage for the Academy catalogue in the Book of Revelation:
And I saw an angel standing in the sun; and he cried with a loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of heaven, Come and gather yourselves together unto the supper of the great God; That ye may eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains and the flesh of mighty men, and the flesh of horses, and of them that sit on them, both free and bond, both small and great.
To reinforce the note of voracious doom, he added two lines from Samuel Rogers' Voyage of Columbus:
The morning march that flashes to the sun;
The feast of vultures when the day is done. — Anthony Bailey

Grace, like an angel of mercy, makes his voice heard sweet and clear, repeating the story of the cross, the matchless love of Jesus. — Ellen G. White

He was nearly asleep when he heard a voice, a melody so unearthly and beautiful he glanced up at the sky, expecting to see heaven opened and an angel of music. But all he saw were a few stars winking above him through the leaves. — Melanie Dickerson

He was magnificent - a god. Not a god, a small voice of consciousness stated. He's got to be an angel. — Laurann Dohner

Dangerous as a lightning strike, as lethal as a pair of crisscrossing short swords, William whispered, "You're about to find out how your liver tastes, my friend."
"I have tasted it already," Zacharel said, his voice its usual monotone. The snowflakes began to fall in earnest, tiny at first, but growing in diameter. An arctic wind blustered around him. "It was a bit salty."
How the hell was a guy supposed to respond to that?
Apparently William didn't know, either, because he gaped at the angel. Then, "Maybe if you added a little pepper?"
O-kay. It was official. William had an answer for everything. — Gena Showalter

One needs a Seer's Vision and an Angel's voice to be of any avail. I do not know of any Indian man or woman today who has those gifts in their most complete measure. — Sarojini Naidu

When I was a child, Mama had the best voice of all the members of the church. She had loved to sing. Her words had soared like an angel's over the swells of the organ. In fact, I now suspected, her entire theology had been taken from the hymnal. — Siri Mitchell

You are funny like a kid and awesome like a princess
Unseen like an angel, like the morning sunshine ...
Kindness like a river and highness like a mountain,
In the middle of the Rheine, the cute face and sweet lips ...
(La la la la, La la , mmmm , mm ... )
Keep the lovely smile, in your juicy icy eyes
Open the heaven for my eyes, forever angel voice
Never angry never harsh, never mad never marsh
Dear or darling, either diamond or dime,
Overall the dream of the world — M.F. Moonzajer

A woman with a voice like that should have the face of an angel, the body of a Greek sculpture, and the skills of a courtesan. Chances were, she was a haggard old crone.
The hulking workman began to gather his tools. "I hope ye and yer pa know what ye're doin'. Fop or no, no man takes well to losin' his belongings."
"Psht," the woman said airily. "It's not as if we plan on knocking him in the head and peeling his pockets."
That was something,at least, Dougal thought grimly. — Karen Hawkins

I am an angel,' said the voice. 'Let me in and I shall tell you a secret that only you must know.' She opened the window and let him in. In order not to frighten her, he had assumed the appearance of a young man, just like one of the young men who spoke to her by the well. — Anonymous

The voice of an Angel, the Heart of a Lamb, the spirit of a Lioness, the presence of a Goddess, love you R.I.P Whitney Houston. — Wyclef Jean

Was there a voice that whispered in his ear that he had just passed the most solemn moment of his destiny, that there was no longer a middle course for him; that from now on, he would either be the best of men or he would be the worst of men; that he now had to rise higher, so to speak, than the bishop or fall even lower than the galley slave; that if he wanted to be good, he had to be an angel; that if he wanted to stay bad, he had to be a monster from hell? — Victor Hugo

I will not be sued! I have the voice of an angel! — Maria Callas

She is here amongst us, but she is not alone," one of the pixie dust angels told the queen of the woods.
"And?" the queen demanded.
"She is with some boy. Both look strange, if you ask me."
"Strange, how?" the queen asked.
"Strange. You know they don't look as we do."
"How do they look?" The queen turned and looked at the pixie angel with her purple eye that sat in the middle of her forehead.
"I don't know. They have things like the little people in Vanduesa."
"What things might you be referring to?" the queen's voice rose impatiently.
"You know those things that the little people get around with."
The queen laughed, revealing yellowing teeth. "Oh, the things the little people in Vanduesa refer to as legs."
"That's it." The pixie angel did an excited flip, and then nodded her head. — Lynette Mather

She had witnessed a conflict between two men who held her liberty in their hands, her very life and that of her child; one had sought to drag her deeper into darkness, the other to restore her to light. The two contestants, in the heightened vision of her terror, had seemed like giants, one speaking with the voice of a demon, the other in the tones of an angel. The angel had won, and what caused her to tremble from head to foot was the fact that this rescuing angel was the man she abhorred, the abominable mayor whom for so long she had regarded as the author of her troubles. He had saved her after she had most outrageously insulted him! — Victor Hugo

Bree arched, trying to stretch out her muscles and Alessandro gave her a dirty look as if she was displaying herself to him on purpose. Well, maybe she was a little. Even though he blocked her from the hotel attendant's gaze with his body in the doorway, Bree was sure to cover herself with the blanket. Alessandro turned around, pulling in the tray with him and his eyes flared hungrily as he looked down at her. "You look like a beautiful debauched angel," he said, his voice rough with desire. "And you're what, the demon that's corrupted me?" Bree asked raising an eyebrow and letting the blanket fall down to her waist, baring her to him. "It's my life's work, you know?" Alessandro grinned, going down on to his knees and leaning over her. Bree placed a hand on his chest, halting him. "Is that coffee, I smell?" she asked. "The debauched angel is kind of hungry." She bit her lip and smiled up at his frustrated face. — E. Jamie

Late one night, during a toss-and-turn fretful sleep, I pondered my crisis. No solutions were on the horizon. I, again, wasted my psychic energy with prayer. Nothing. No angel on a white cloud. No rainbow's pot of gold. No way to control the people I loved. As I rolled over and put the pillow over my head attempting to block all that was negative, I silently screamed for rescue. Then, in a far away and distinct part of my brain, a small voice said, "You have to do this on your own."

I thought, "Was that the best You can do?" This god, to whom I was desperately sending burnt offerings of my own humiliation, couldn't send an avenging angel or a wise man imparting wisdom? All You can give me is this feeble message of abandonment? At that moment, I quit believing in that god. — David W. Earle

Old beggars in stories are never really old beggars," Simmon said with a hint of accusation in his voice. "They're always a witch or a prince or an angel or something."
"In real life old beggars are almost always old beggars," I pointed out. — Patrick Rothfuss