An Ever-Fixed Mark

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

[...]

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

Love has become such a trite word in the way that we have come to use it. People that have just met you will tell you they love you. I tend to hold back, because I want every word that proceeds from my mouth to be really true, to mean something. When I tell you that I love you, I love you. Love, in its truest form, exhibits the qualities that the great writers of old have penned. I think the reason so much of literature is devoted to love is the unsearchable, incredible quality of it that we can never fully fathom. It's such a thing of enigmatic beauty that can't be explained, but maybe that is because of its source.


Can anything separate us from Christ's love? Does it mean he no longer loves us if we have trouble or calamity, or are persecuted, or hungry, or destitute, or in danger, or threatened with death?...No, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ, who loved us.

And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life...neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow...nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God...

—Romans 8:35, 37-39