God doesn't dwell in the wooden, stony or earthen idols. His abode is in our feelings, our thoughts.

The cold hard truth will fall on stony ground, whereas your all-around trashy rumor will flourish like a weed.

O world, world when I was younger I thought there was some order governing you and your deeds. But now you seem to be a labyrinth of errors, a frightful desert, a den of wild beasts, a game in which men move in circles?a stony field, a meadow full of serpents, a flowering but barren orchard, a spring of cares, a river of tears, a sea of suffering, a vain hope.