Here is a fun little poem by Bearded Gospel Man, Joe Cassada:
A beard’s (to most) a silly thing –
Just facial hair allowed to cling
Upon its bearer’s face too long.
“’Tis best,” say they, “to shave. C’mon!”
With bearded men this hallowed truth
Is known quite well; they swear: “Forsooth!
My beard is not some whiskered shame!
‘Tis crown, and rank, and lion’s mane!”
And, would you ask the buck to lop
His antler’s off with chopping block?
Why then the pleas for faces nude,
And not my manliness exude?
Did Erikson with bald face sail?
Or Shakespeare take up ink and quill
And write with smooth and beardless grace?
Did Plato teach with shaven face?
Did soft-cheeked Leonidas fight
With beardless Spartan manly might?
Or Peter, Paul, and Jesus preach
With hairless, girly, rosy cheeks?
I hope you’ve seen o’er time and age
That warrior, preacher, and wise sage
Each one their manliness allowed
To show with beard grown long and proud.
Thus I shall keep my face unshorn –
With locks my cheeks and chin adorn.
For bearded face is how God made
This man. So bearded I shall stay.
And I had no idea that J.S. Bach, one of the greatest Christian musicians in all of history (he was a devout Lutheran), not only smoked a pipe, but also wrote a poem or two. As fun as this poem is, I’m glad he stuck to music!
Edifying Thoughts of a Tobacco Smoker
Whene’re I take my pipe and stuff it
And smoke to pass the time away,
My thoughts as I sit there and puff it,
Dwell on a picture sad and grey:
It teaches me that very like
Am I myself unto my pipe.
Like me, this pipe so fragrant 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 harken
My body too, all pale will grow
To black beneath the sod ’twill turn.
Or when the pipe is fairly glowing,
Behold then, instantaniously,
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:
The 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 of 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.