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 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 sight is 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 plow

Has left it's furrows on my brow?

Another house not made with hands

Awaits me in the Glory Land.

And though I falter in my walk

I still can tread the narrow way,

I still can watch and sing and pray.



My hearing may not be so keen

As in the past it has been

Still I can hear my Savior say

In voice so soft, "This is the way".

The natural man does what he can

To lengthen out this life's short span,

Who 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