They say that I am growing old;
I've heard them say times untold,
In language plain and bold--
but I am 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 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 at Calvary!
Why should I care if time's old plough
has left its furrows on my brow?
Another house, not made with hands
awaits me in the Glory Land.
What though I falter in my walk
and though my tongue refuse to talk?
I still can tread the narrow way;
I still can watch and praise and pray!
The robe of flesh I'll drop
and rise to seize the everlasting prize
I'll meet you on the streets of gold
and prove I am NOT growing old.