I'm growing very old. The weary head
That hath so often leaned on Jesus' breast
In days long past that seem almost a dream,
Is bent and weary with its weight of years.
I'm old—so old I cannot recollect
The faces that I meet in daily life:
But that dear Face and every word He spoke
Grow more distinct as others fade away,
So that I live with Him and the holy dead
More than the living.
(John 21. 20; Rev. 1. 9)