Just as men spontaneously praise whatever they value, so they spontaneously urge us to join them in praising it: "Isn't she lovely? Wasn't it glorious? Don't you think that magnificant?" It isn't out of compliment that lovers keep on telling one another how beautiful they are; the delight is imcomplete until it is expressed.
It is frustrating to have discovered a new author and not be able to tell anyone how good he is; to come suddenly, at the turn of the road, upon some mountain valley of unexpected grandeur and trhen to have to keep silent because the people you are with care for it no more than for a tin can in the ditch.
John Piper, Brothers, We Are Not Professionals, pg. 37
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