Mortals Cannot Abide in Their Pomp

  

So today, on the 19^th of the month, I come to Psalm 49 for at least the 600^th time in my daily prayer Psalm rotation. It is presented as an antidote to fear in times of trouble. (v. 5) However, this comes as a relentless gazing into human mortality and pretentiousness. Not one of the pretty, happy Psalms people post on their refrigerators. Actually, I find all of the Psalms in today’s rotation (19, 49, 79, 109, 139) to be powerful, if uncomfortable, prompts for intensive examen.

When I get to verse 11, “they named lands their own,” I remember and envision Percy Bysshe Shelley’s 1818 poem Ozymandias. So I find that a 3,000 year old Psalm and a 200 years old poem still speak with incisive discomfort today.

 

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

 

Psalm 49

Hear this, all you peoples; give ear, all inhabitants of the world,

both low and high, rich and poor together.

My mouth shall speak wisdom; the meditation of my heart shall be understanding.

I will incline my ear to a proverb; I will solve my riddle to the music of the harp.

Why should I fear in times of trouble, when the iniquity of my persecutors surrounds me,

those who trust in their wealth and boast of the abundance of their riches?

Truly, no ransom avails for one’s life, there is no price one can give to God for it.

For the ransom of life is costly, and can never suffice

that one should live on forever and never see the grave.

When we look at the wise, they die; fool and dolt perish together and leave their wealth to others.

Their graves are their homes forever, their dwelling places to all generations, though THEY NAMED LANDS THEIR OWN.

Mortals cannot abide in their pomp; they are like the animals that perish.

Such is the fate of the foolhardy, the end of those who are pleased with their lot.

Like sheep they are appointed for Sheol; Death shall be their shepherd; straight to the grave they descend, and their form shall waste away; Sheol shall be their home.

But God will ransom my soul from the power of Sheol, for he will receive me.

Do not be afraid when some become rich, when the wealth of their houses increases.

For when they die they will carry nothing away; their wealth will not go down after them.

Though in their lifetime they count themselves happy—for you are praised when you do well for yourself—

they will go to the company of their ancestors, who will never again see the light.

Mortals cannot abide in their pomp; they are like the animals that perish.

 

The two portrayals of Charlemagne that I saw on my 2004 pilgrimage to Rome probe this even deeper with their visual contrast. The statue of Charlemagne by Cornacchini Agostino (1686-1754) sits by the entrance to St. Peter’s Basilica. The portrait of Charlemagne was painted from life ca. 800. It is in the Vatican Museum. I shudder when our gazes meet.