Whene'er I take my pipe and stuff it
And smoke to pass the time away,
My thoughts, as I sit then and puff it,
Dwell on a picture sad and grey
It teaches me the very like
Am I myself unto my pipe.

Like me, this pipe so frangrant burning
Is made of naught but earth and clay;
To earth I too shall be returning,
It falls and, ere I'd think to say,
It breaks in two before my eyes;
In store for me a like fate lies.

No stain the pipe's hue yet doth darken;
It remains white. Thus do I know
That when to death's call I must hearken
My body, too, all pale and will grow.
To black beneath the sod wil turn,
Likewise, the pipe, if oft it burn.

Or when the pipe is fairly growing,
Behold then instantaneously,
The smoke off into thin air going
Till naught but ash is left to see.
Man's frame likewise away will burn
And unto dust his body turn.

How oft it happens when one's smoking:
Ths stopper's missing from the shelf,
And one goes with one's finger poking
Into the bowl and burns oneself.
If in the pipe such pain doth dwell,
How hot must be the pains in Hell.

Thus o'er my pipe, in contemplation
Of such things, I can constantly
Indulge in fruitful meditation,
And so, puffing contentedly,
On land, on sea, at home, abroad,
I smoke my pipe and worship God.

Johann Sebastian Bach