They say that I am growing old;I’ve heard them tell it times untold,In language that is plain and bold—But really, I’m not growing old. This frail shell in which I dwellIs growing old, as time doth tell—But on the inside all is wellFor I am not the outer shell. What if my hair is turning gray?Gray hair's a noble crown, they say.What if my eyesight’s growing dim?I still can see to follow HimWho sacrificed His life for meUpon the cross of Calvary. What should I care if time’s old plowHas left its furrows on my brow?Another house, not made with hand,Awaits me in God's glory-land. What though I falter in my walk?What though my tongue refuse to talk?I still can tread the narrow way,I still can watch and praise and pray. My hearing may not be as keenAs 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 canTo lengthen out this 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 oldWhen safe within my Saviour’s fold? Ere long my soul shall fly awayAnd leave this tenement of clay;This robe of flesh I’ll drop, and riseTo gain the “everlasting prize.”I’ll meet you on the streets of gold,And prove that I’m not growing old. —John E. Roberts
