"If God is good, why does He make us beg?"
After each healing, he aged.
The villagers called it a miracle. The pastor called it an act of God. But Paul knew something they didn’t: the song had not come from memory. It had come through him, from a place older than his own bones. By the time Paul turned thirty, he had built a reputation that stretched from Lagos to London. They called him "The Healer of the Delta." His crusade ground was a half-acre of red dirt ringed by plastic chairs and rusted speakers. Every night, the sick came—women with tumors like hidden fruits, men with legs twisted by polio, children who had never spoken a word. Paul Nwokocha - Ancient Of Days
"Time is not a river. It is a gift. I simply gave mine away. — P.N." "If God is good, why does He make us beg
"Ancient of Days," he whispered, "take my tomorrows. Give her today." But Paul knew something they didn’t: the song
The crowd roared.
"If God is good, why does He make us beg?"
After each healing, he aged.
The villagers called it a miracle. The pastor called it an act of God. But Paul knew something they didn’t: the song had not come from memory. It had come through him, from a place older than his own bones. By the time Paul turned thirty, he had built a reputation that stretched from Lagos to London. They called him "The Healer of the Delta." His crusade ground was a half-acre of red dirt ringed by plastic chairs and rusted speakers. Every night, the sick came—women with tumors like hidden fruits, men with legs twisted by polio, children who had never spoken a word.
"Time is not a river. It is a gift. I simply gave mine away. — P.N."
"Ancient of Days," he whispered, "take my tomorrows. Give her today."
The crowd roared.