They say that I am growing old, I've heard

them say 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 am not the shell.

What if my hair is turning gray? Gray hair is honorable, they say.

What if my eye sight's growing dim?

I can still see to follow Him

Who sacrificed His life for me

Upon the cross of Calvary

Why should I care if time's old plow.

Has left its furrows on my brow.

Another house, not made by hand,

Awaits me in the glory land.

What though I falter in my walk?

What though my tongue refuses to talk?

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 this life's short span

Shall perish and return to dust,

As everything in nature must.

But 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?

'Er 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