NOT REALLY GROWING OLD

 They say that I am growing old—

I’ve heard them tell it times untold;

 They think that I have lost my youth,

But I am glad I know the truth:

This frail old shell in which I dwell

Is failing fast— I’m not the shell;

With hopes eternal, still unsung,

My “inward man’ is really young.

My “outward man” may feeble be,

And that is all the people see;

Inside I’m young and bright and gay,

I’m growing stronger every day.

What if my hair is turning white

And I am weak? I still can fight

The fight of faith, nor suffer loss,

For I’m a soldier of the cross.

What if my eyes are growing dim?

I still can see to follow Him

Who sacrificed His life for me

Upon the cross at Calvary.

My hearing may not be as keen

As in the past it might have been,

Still I can hear my Savior say,

In whispers soft, “I am the way.”

My legs may bow, my back may bend,

As I approach my journey’s end,

 But in His strength I walk upright—

To do His will is my delight.

What though I falter in my walk?

What though my tongue refuse to talk?

I still can walk the righteous way,

And run the race, and praise, and pray.

Why should I care if time’s old plow

Has left its furrow on my brow)

Another house, made by God’s hand,

Awaits me in my promised land.

These few shaft years can’t make me old;

Eternal ages will unfold

The glorious life He’ll give to me—

The best of life is yet to be!

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