Not Growing Old

They say that I'm 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 quite well;
But I am not the shell.

What if my hair turns gray?
"Gray hairs are honorable," they say.
What if my eyesight  growing dim?
I still can follow Him
Who sacrified His life for me
Upon the cross of Calvary.

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"

Why should I care if old time's plow
Has left its furrows i my brow?
Another house not made with hand
Awaits me in 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.

The outward ma, do what I can
To lengthen out this life's short span,
Shall perish and return to dust,
As everything in nature must.

The inward man, the scriptures say,
Is growing stronger day by day;
Then how can I be growing old.
When safe within my Savior's fold?