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 shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd 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.


I re-read this poem recently, and was struck by how even the fallen know that their works will not last. Shelley was not exactly one of the great moralists of his era.

So many people work hard and build something. And yet, how soon these works fall. The only of the Wonders of the Ancient World that still remain are the pyramids, and they are (a still impressive) shadow of their former glory.

The thing is, without Christ, nothing will last. A building is only a day of extreme weather away from distruction. Paintings are stolen, neglected, distroyed. All that we make, God can unmake, and in a second, when we least expect it.

What are you building? Will it last more than a year? Beyond your lifetime? Into eternity? Or will it disappear in the sands of time?

Only one life, will soon be past; only what's done for Christ will last.