Not Growing Old
They say that I am growing old,
I've heard them tell it times untold
In language plain and bold-
But I'm not growing old.
This frail old shell in which I dwell
Is growing old, I know full well-
But I'm not the shell.
What if my hair is turning grey?
Gray hairs are honorable, they say,
What if my eyesight's growing dim
I still can see to follow Him
Who sacrificed His life for me
Upon the cross of Calvary.
What though I falter in my walk?
What though my tongue refused to talk?
I still can tread the narrow way,
I still can watch and praise and pray.
My hearing may not be so keen
As in the past it may have been,
Still, I can hear my Saviour say
In whispers soft, " This is the way."
The outward man-do what I can
To lengthen out his life's short span-
Shall perish, and return to dust,
As everything in nature must.
The inward man, the Scriptures say,
Is growing stronger every day.
Then how can I be growing old
When safe within my Saviour's fold?
Ere long my soul shall fly away,
And leave this tenement of clay.
" This robe of flesh I'll drop, and rise
To seize the everlasting prize"-
I'll meet you on the streets of Gold,
And prove that I'm not growing old.
I think this poem is so beautiful and so full of insight. And I hope to learn of who wrote it. [color:"red"] [/color]
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