The Final Hour

T

he final hour comes to everyone. It can come while one is sleeping, walking or lying in one’s bed. No one can escape this hour, though the form which it takes differs from person to person.

How strange death is. The flame of life is suddenly extinguished; a happy face abruptly fades into oblivion, as if it were less than dust; the aspirations and ambitions that one cherishes on earth are shattered in an instant, as if they were meaningless.

How meaningful life appears, yet its conclusion renders it meaningless. How free man appears to be, yet he is absolutely helpless before death. How dear man’s ambitions and desires are to him, but how mercilessly the hand of fate brings them to nothing.

If one only remembers death, one will never be arrogant. The secret of a good life is to stay within one’s own bounds: death alone can teach one the truth of this.

Death teaches one not to despise others, for soon one will be brought low oneself. Death reminds one not to crush others, for soon one will be crushed beneath tons of earth oneself.