Law (n.) does not restrict freedom; without law freedom simply does not exist — and the law that makes distinctions is the very law that makes all equal.
Law (n.) was the only one privy to Christ's life — sleepless enough to follow Him step by step with its infinite demand.
Law (n.) is indeterminate for all its provisions — like a shadow, always vague at the edges; it is the artist's sketch, and only the finished work, love, is absolutely definite.
Law (n.) is inexhaustible: every provision breeds a more exacting one, so you can never count up its sum — love stands to law as faith to reason.
Law (n.) is like the sea seen from shore — wave after wave of demand, never its limit; a severity that can always grow more severe, never the boundary where it turns to mildness.
Law (n.) is starving: it provides only for taking away, and resembles death — which knows every bit as precisely as life what makes for life.
Law (n.) demands, love grants: they quarrel no more than hunger quarrels with the meal that satisfies it.
Law (n.) has its most beautiful form in this: against God we are always in the wrong — a law that has supported the race for thousands of years, more glorious than the one that keeps the stars in their courses.
Law (n.) taken from other people as the rule of one's actions is the mark of the lower natures.