Not Growing Old
This frail old shell in which I dwell
Is growing old, I know full well–
But I am not the shell.
What if my hair is turning grey?
Grey 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 should I care if Time’s old ploy
Has left its furrows on my brow?
Another house, not made with hand,
Awaits me in the Glory Land.
What though my tongue refuse to talk?
What though I falter in my walk?
I still can tread the Narrow Way,
I still can watch, and praise and pray.
My hearing may not be as keen
As in the past it may have been,
Still, I can hear my Savior 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 Savior’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.
John E. Roberts