Old Age Sermon Illustrations

Old Age Sermon Illustrations

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Old Age—God's Crown of Glory

When Polycarp was given the alternative of denying Christ or suffering martyrdom, the aged saint replied: "Eighty and six years I have served my Saviour and He hath never done me any harm; and shall I deny Him now?" What heroism is this! What faith!—Christian Witness.


When I Am Old

Lord, keep me sweet when I grow old,
And things in life seem hard to bear,
When I feel sad and all alone,
And people do not seem to care.

Oh, keep me sweet when time has caused
This body, which is not so strong,
To droop beneath its load of years,
And suffering and pain have come.

And keep me sweet when I have grown
To worry so, at din and noise;
And help me smile, the while I watch,
The noisy play of girls and boys.

Help me remember how that I,
When I was younger than today,
And full of life and health and joy,
Would romp and shout in happy play.

Help me to train my heart each day,
That it will only sweetness hold;
And as the days and years roll on,
May I keep sweet, as I grow old.

Oh, keep me sweet, and let me look
Beyond the frets that life must hold,
To see the glad eternal joys;
Yes, keep me sweet, in growing old.—Mrs. J. A. Hazard.


Indian Summer

Someone has well said that of all the seasons of the year in our American climate, there is none so tender, so beautiful, so weird and unearthly, so fascinating and perfect as Indian summer.

After the buds, blossoms, heat, and harvests of summer; after the autumn of fruits and frosts, when the forests are mantled in crimson, fire, and gold; when chill winds and vagrant snow warn of the approach of ice-mantled winter, then some invisible hand seizes the galloping steeds of the seasons and reins them up suddenly for a few days, while earth, air and sky weave around the weather-beaten brow of the year the golden crown of Indian summer. The sun pours down a soft and dreamy golden light; the sky is robed with a delicate, purplish gauze that seems to float everywhere; the air is balmy and caressing. There is a bewitching charm in the unearthly spell that has been cast upon nature.

"November leads us through her dreary straits
To find the halcyon Indian summer days,
Where, sitting in a dreamy, solemn haze,
We catch the glimmer of the jasper gates,
And hear the echo of the celestial praise."

And so God designs old age to be the Indian summer of life—the gentlest, the tenderest, the most beautiful of all of life's seasons, for He says, "And even to your old age I am he; and even to hoar hairs I will carry you; I have made and I will bear; even I will carry and deliver you." God's special care and love for old age marks it as the Indian summer of earth's pilgrimage.Baltimore Southern Methodist.


They say that I am growing old,
I've heard them tell it times untild,
In language plain and bold;
But I'm not growing old.
This frail old shell in which I dwell
Is growing old, I know full well—
But I am not the shell.

What should I care if Time's old plough
Has left its furrows on my brow?
What though I falter in my walk?
I still can watch and pray and talk.
My hearing may not be so keen
As in the past it may have been;
Still I can hear my Savior say,
In whispers soft, 'This is the Way!'

(2 Cor. 4. 16)


An aged gardener was asked how old he was. 'I am an octogeranium,' he replied, making a charming blunder which was really an improvement on the meaning of the word he meant to use. The octogenarian who is also an octogeranium—that is to say, the old man with a young soul, the veteran with an open mind, the ancient pilgrim who maintains the forward look—that person is one of the most attractive of human types.

With that story came another equally beautiful one from America, about a fine old warrior well on in his eighties. He was told that a friend of his, aged 75, had said that a man is at his best in his seventies; but the octogenarian would have none of it. 'He will know better when he grows up' was his comment.—Henry Durbanville

(Josh. 14. 6-12; Isa. 46. 4)


They say I am growing old because my hair is silvered, and there are crow's feet on my forehead, and my step is not as firm and elastic as before. But they are mistaken; that is not me. The knees are weak but the knees are not me. The brow is wrinkled but the brow is not me. This is the house I live in: but I am young—younger than I was ever before.—Dr. Guthrie


When John Quincey Adams was a very old man someone asked him how he was keeping, and he said: 'Thank you, John Quincey Adams is very well himself, sir; but the house in which he lives is falling to pieces. Time and seasons have nearly destroyed it. The roof is well worn, the walls shattered. It trembles with every gale. I think John Quincey Adams will soon have to move out. But he himself is very well, sir.'—Henry Durbanville

(Prov. 16. 31; 2 Cor. 4. 16)

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