Growing Old
John E. Roberts
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 shell in which I dwell
Is growing old, I know full well—
But I am not the shell.
What if my hair is turning gray?
Gray hair is honorable, they say.
What if my eyesight’s growing dim?
I still can see to follow Him.
My hearing may not be as keen
As in the past it may have been,
Still, I can hear my Saviour say,
In whispers soft, “This is the way.”
This outward shell, do what I can
To lengthen out this life’s short span,
Shall perish, and return to dust,
As everything in nature must.
My inward self, the Scriptures say,
Is growing stronger every day.
Then how can I be growing old
When safe within my Saviour’s fold?
Before 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!