Poetry Saturday—Growing Old

They call it “going down the hill” when we are growing old,
And speak with mournful accents when our tale is nearly told;
They sigh when talking of the past, the days that used to be,
As if the future were not bright with immortality.
 
But it is not going down; ‘tis climbing high and higher,
Until we almost see the mountain that our souls desire;
For if the natural eye grows dim it is but dim to earth,
While the eye of faith grows keener to discern the Savior’s worth.
 
Who would exchange for shooting blade the waving golden grain?
Or, when the corn is fully ripe, would wish it green again?
And who would wish the hoary head, found in the way of truth
To be again encircled in the sunny locks of youth?
 
 
For though, in truth, the outward man must perish and decay,
The inward man shall be renewed by grace from day to day;
Those who are planted by the Lord, unshaken in their root,
Shall in their old age flourish and bring forth their choicest fruit.
 
It is not years that make men old; the spirit may be young,
Though fully threescore years and ten the wheels of life have run.
God has Himself recorded, in His blessed Word of truth,
That they who wait upon the Lord shall even renew their youth.
 
And when the eye, now dim, shall open to behold the King,
And ears now dull with age shall hear the harps of Heaven ring,
And on the head now hoary shall be placed the crown of gold,
Then shall be known the lasting joy of never growing old. —Anonymous

Poetry Saturday—I’ll Praise My Maker While I’ve Breath

I’ll praise my Maker while I’ve breath;
and when my voice is lost in death,
praise shall employ my nobler powers.
My days of praise shall ne’er be past
while life and thought and being last,
or immortality endures.

How happy they whose hopes rely
on Israel’s God, who made the sky
and earth and seas with all their train;
whose truth forever stands secure,
who saves the oppressed and feeds the poor,
and none shall find God’s promise vain.

The Lord pours eyesight on the blind;
the Lord supports the fainting mind
and sends the laboring conscience peace.
God helps the stranger in distress,
the widowed and the parentless,
and grants the prisoner sweet release. —Isaac Watts

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