YOU TELL ME I AM GETTING OLD
You tell me I am getting old. I tell you that’s not so!
The “house” I live in is worn out, and that, of course, I know.
It’s been in use a long, long while: it’s weathered many a gale;
I’m really not surprised you think it’s getting somewhat frail.
The color changing on the roof, the windows getting dim,
The walls a bit transparent and looking rather thin,
The foundation’s not so steady as once it used to be —
My HOUSE is getting shaky, but my HOUSE isn’t me.
My few short years can’t make me old. I feel I’m in my youth.
Eternity lies just ahead, a life of joy and truth.
I’m going to live forever there, life will go on — IT’S GRAND!
You tell me I’m getting old? You just don’t understand.
The dweller in my little “house” is…
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