Hear this, all you peoples,
give heed, all who dwell in the world,
both high and low, rich and poor alike!
My lips will speak words of wisdom.
My heart is full of insight.
I will turn my mind to a parable,
with the harp I will solve my problem.
Why should I fear in evil days
the malice of the foes who surround me,
those who trust in their wealth,
and boast of the vastness of their riches?
For no one buys their own ransom,
or pay a price to God for their life.
The ransom of their souls is beyond them.
They cannot buy life without end,
nor avoid coming to the grave.
They know that the wise and fools must both perish
and must leave their wealth to others.
Their graves are their homes for ever,
their dwelling place from age to age,
though their names spread wide through the land.
In their riches, they lack wisdom;
they are like the beasts that are destroyed.
This is the lot of those who trust in themselves,
who have others in their beck and call.
Like sheep they are driven to the grave,
where death shall be their shepherd
and the just shall become their rulers.
With the morning their outward show vanishes
and the grave becomes their home.
But God will ransom me from death
and take my soul to himself.
Then do not fear when a person grows rich,
when the glory of their house increases.
They take nothing with them when they die,
Their glory does not follow them below.
Though they flatter themselves while they live:
“People will praise me for all my success,”
yet they will go to join their ancestors,
and will never see the light any more.
In their riches, they lack wisdom;
they are like the beasts that are destroyed.
Reflection
The poet’s observation that we take nothing with us when we die made me think about the neolithic burial tomb at the end of my road. It was built 2,800 years before Jesus, within a few hundred years of the other ancient sites that abound on the West Mainland of Orkney. The inhabitants of these islands so long ago left us no poetry or writing, and no answers to the questions we have about how they lived and what they believed. We’ve got some of their bones, many of their tools and crockery and, of course, we’ve got their vast monuments – but no idea why they were constructed. They left everything behind except their ideas.
Whilst we know little about the builders of Maes Howe, the Ring of Brodgar, and Skara Brae we know a little more about the Psalmists as they left their poems behind. We don’t know how they lived, or much about the contexts of their lives, but their ideas echo across the ages. This ancient poem, more than 3,000 years old, moves and informs us even now just as the, older, ancient monuments in Orkney move thousands of tourists each year.
The ancient architects, priests, and builders left a legacy we puzzle over; a legacy of the built environment rather than history, ideology or theology. The Psalmists left their poetic ideas about God and the world in which they lived. What legacy, I wonder, will we leave to posterity?
Will future generations date our era by the plastic in the ground and carbon deposits in ice?
Will our legacy be a poisonous, polluted, planet or an earth teeming with renewed life and vitality?
Will our Christian legacy speak of faith in hard times inspiring future generations to discipleship or of an institution clinging on to privilege and imperial trappings as those drowning at sea cling to flotsam?
The grave may become our home but let’s ponder our legacy – and work to improve it.
Prayer
O God, our Help in ages past,
our Hope for years to come,
our Shelter from the stormy blast,
and our eternal Home.
A thousand ages in Thy sight
are like an evening gone,
short as the watch that ends the night
before the rising sun.
Isaac Watts