Psalm 49 has been described as a “lament of the pious over the riddle of death.” It begins “hear this all you peoples” (49:1)-emphasizing the point that this Psalm is addressed to all the inhabitants of the world; it is of universal interest and it treats of man as man not of Israel as the chosen people. (See on this score,  A. F. Kirkpatrick, Psalms [Cambridge, 1914], Books II & III, p. 269.) Indeed, it is a well-established minhag to recite this psalm when one davens at a house of mourning.

Keli Yaqar, in the beginning of his commentary to Parashat Noah, writes that he has written a wonderful commentary on the entire Psalm 49, but will only cite his interpretation of one verse, as it pertains to the understanding of a particular verse in Parashat Noah. His point of departure is the verse (Genesis 6:13) “I have decided to put an end to all flesh.” Keli Yaqar interprets the Hebrew qetz kol basar ba le-fanai (all flesh) as referring to the actions of man, not of God. As the time that the end of all flesh necessarily approaches, that is, as the time of death draws near, those who realize that they are about to die complain bitterly that is, they “come before Me [God]” (ba le-fanai) and cry that when they die they will be forgotten. Of course, they should have repented of their sinful ways earlier, but they did not. The connection between the realization of one’s mortality (a point driven home through the witnessing of the death of others) and subsequent stirrings of repentance is the reason, moreover, why God waited until the death of Methuselah to cause the Flood. The point of that delay, according to Keli Yaqar, was to give a chance for those who witnessed the seven days of mourning for Methuselah to repent.

At this point Keli Yaqar introduces Psalm 49, verse 12. It states, “Their grave is their eternal home, the dwelling place for all generations of those once famous on earth.” The translation their grave is based upon the medieval [and modern] interpreters who translate the Hebrew qirbam as if it were written qivram [their grave], transposing the Hebrew letters bet and resh. Keli Yaqar, for his part, takes the word qirbam to mean “what is in their innermost being, what the content of their thoughts is.”

People, he adds, spend vast sums of money to build magnificent, lavish structures, thinking that they will last forever. In their hearts they feel that they have attained immortality. When confronted with the fact that they will eventually die, they brush away this unpleasant fact with the argument that “for all generations” this house that they built will stand and they will be remembered, as the builders of this house.

But this too is an exercise in self-deception. A structure might last for several generations but it too has no intrinsic permanence. It too can eventually be reduced to nothing but rubble. (Think of the World Trade Center!) With it, the memory of the builder is forever gone. Eventually the time of reckoning, the “inevitable appointment,” the time of qetz kol basar arrives. The truth is that the only real remembrance that anyone has a chance to attain is through the fulfillment of mitzvoth and good deeds that can help him attain a share of immortality. The people of the generation of the Flood did not see this, and they perished into oblivion. The musar haskel for all of us is obvious.