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A woman nearly 100 years old wrote:

This 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.

What should I care if times’ old plow

Has left deep furrows on my brow.

Another house, not made with hands,

Awaits me in the Glory Land.

What tho my tongue refuse to talk,

What; tho I falter in my walk,

I still can tread the narrow way,

I still can sing, and watch and pray.

My hearing may not be as keen

As in times past it may have been

But I still can hear the Savior say

In whispers soft, "This is the Way."

This outward man, do what I can,

To lengthen out his life’s short span,

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 the Master’s fold?

Ere long this 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.

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