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 though my
tongue refuses to talk, what though 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 might have been,
but I can hear
the Savior say and whisper soft, "I am the way".
This outward
man does what I can to lengthen out his lifes short span
and shall perish
and return to dust, As everything in nature must.
The inward man..the
scriptues say is growing stronger every day.
Then how can I
be growing old, when safe within the Masters 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.
This very special poem was given to BJK as a gift of love
by a lady long since gone to that better place.
Wishing you all a Merry Christmas
and a very happy New Year
MERRY CHRISTMAS
and God Bless You All
BJK
Cynann/ Redone 11/2007
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