For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? —Romans 8:24

Hope is a flimsy, four-letter word.

Hope is a poison pill; it is candy laced with arsenic, razors in bars of chocolate.

Hope is a tease; the stick fast closing in and the the carrot just out of reach.

Hope is losing the day to the promise of the night, and the night to the fresh start of the dawn.

Hope is never enough.

It’s the hope that kills you.

To hope is to admit that it’s all over, the beginning of end.

Hope is all we’ve got.

Hope is an elevator, alternately moving up and down, but always where you need to go.

Hope will bring you Home.

Hope is the entire universe conspiring to help you. 

Hope loves you, asking you for nothing, but to be okay.

Hope does not boast, it reassures. It is the quiet voice inside you that whispers: “Tomorrow will be a bit better.” 

Hope needs nothing more than your courage to move mountains and shatter stone.

Hope is more than enough. 

It’s the hope that saves you.

To hope is to admit that it’s just getting started, the end of the beginning.

Hope is all we’ve got.

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