A Quote by Charles Spurgeon
The Christian is the most contented man in the world, but he is the least contented with the world. He is like a traveler in an inn, perfectly satisfied with the inn and its accommodation, considering it as an inn, but putting quite out of all consideration the idea of making it his home.
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We are in this life as it were in another man's house.... In heaven is our home, in the world is our Inn: do not so entertain thyself in the Inn of this world for a day as to have thy mind withdrawn from longing after thy heavenly home.
We are only here below as in an inn on a journey. Let us, then have the feelings of travelers. We should think a man very strange who attached himself much to his inn. The wise Christian will not do this.
The world rings changes, it is never constant but in its disappointments. The world is but a great inn, where we are to stay a night or two, and be gone; what madness is it so to set our heart upon our inn, as to forget our home?
One's homesickness for Heaven finds at least an inn there; and it's an inn on the right road.
The Christian is the most contented man in the world, but he is the least contented with the world.
It was an eight-harlot inn, if that's how you measure an inn. (I understand that now they measure inns in stars. We are in a four-star inn right now. I don't know what the conversion from harlots to stars is.)
But there was no room at the inn"; the inn is the gathering place of public opinion; so often public opinion locks its doors to the King.
The world's an Inn; and I her guest.
Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend;
The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
Clouseau: Does yer dewg bite? Inn Keeper: No Clouseau: Nice Doggy (bends down to pet a dachshund - it snarls and bites him) I thought you said yer dewg did not bite! Inn Keeper: Zat . . . iz not my dog!
A man knows his companion in a long journey and a little inn.
The finest landscape in the world is improved by a good inn in the foreground.
For the world, I count it not an inn, but a hospital; and a place not to live, but to die in.
Even yet Christ Jesus has to lie out in waste places very often, because there is no room for him in the inn--no room for him in our hearts, because of our worldliness. There is no room for him even in our politics and religion. There is no room in the inn, and we put him in the manger, and he lies outside our faith, coldly and dimly conceived by us.
May we live here like strangers and make the world not a house, but an inn, in which we sup and lodge, expecting to be on our journey tomorrow.
Those who travel heedlessly from place to place, observing only their distance from each other, and attending only to their accommodation at the inn at night, set out fools, and will certainly return so
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