I've reached it long ago, And now am nearing Eighty With hair as white as snow.
Eyes dim, joints stiff, back feeble.
To sing of sunny seventy, Seems somewhat out of place. Pause and ponder What the Good Book hath said Of righteousness and glory Crowning the hoary head. Through many a roaring blast. Now I am near the borders Of the bright shining land. Cleansed in that wondrous flood Which frees from all defilement, E'en Christ's most precious blood.