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Man was created a little lower than the angels, and has been getting lower ever since.
The Angels were all singing out of tune,
And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon
Or curb a runaway young star or two.
A pillow for thee will I bring,
Stuffed with down of angel's wing.
I feel that there is an angel inside me whom I am constantly shocking.
Angels descending, bring from above,
Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.
We trust in plumed procession
For such the angels go —
Rank after Rank, with even feet —
And uniforms of Snow.
The angels are so enamored of the language that is spoken in heaven that they will not distort their lips with the hissing and unmusical dialects of men, but speak their own, whether their be any who understand it or not.
Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.
The guardian angels of life fly so high as to be beyond our sight, but they are always looking down upon us.
It is not known precisely where angels dwell — whether in the air, the void, or the planets. It has not been God's pleasure that we should be informed of their abode.
I'm no angel, but I've spread my wings a bit.