You Tell Me I Am Getting Old

by Dora Johnson

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 mile;
I'm really not surprised you think
it's getting some what frail.
The color's 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 am growing old?
You just don't understand.
The dweller in my little "house"
is young and bright and gay;
Just starting on a life
to last throughout eternal day.
You only see the outside,
Which is all that most folk see.
You tell me I am getting old?
You've mixed my house with ME!