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Who will I be when I grow old?
When the wrinkles deepen,
Little valleys of sagging skin appear,
And the spots become a constellation in themselves,
What will be left of me,
Of the girl who sings with stars in her eyes,
Of the child awestruck at her Father’s strength,
Of the nestling perched at the edge with wings outstretch’d,
Ready to fly away?
Oh God, what will be left of me?
Am I destined simply to wither and perish,
To lay wilted like a **** at the gates of Ninevah?
Am I to depart from this place from whence
I did not come with nothing to show for it?

But oh, oh, I know
What my legacy will be,
And who will remember me:
The One who knows
      me.
The Creator of the heavens,
Of the sky and the sea
Will peer down from His almighty throne
To remember
       me.