Paul - Nwokocha - Ancient Of Days

He was seventy years old.

But something else happened, too. Something Paul never put in the offering appeals or the televised broadcasts.

But deep down, Paul Nwokocha knew the truth. Paul Nwokocha - Ancient Of Days

Paul felt the familiar pull—the heat behind his ribs, the whisper of the old song rising in his throat. He could heal her. He knew it. One touch, one word, and she would rise.

But Paul placed his small palm on her chest and whispered the song his late grandmother used to hum—the one about the One who was, who is, who is to come. Beatrice opened her eyes. She sat up. She asked for water. He was seventy years old

He calculated quickly, the way a gambler counts cards. Adwoa was old, near the end. To undo fifty years of blindness, to rebuild her marrow, to push back the grave—that would cost years. Not months. Years.

And every night, Paul laid hands on them, closed his eyes, and called upon the Ancient of Days. But deep down, Paul Nwokocha knew the truth

But that night, in a small room behind the crusade ground, a nurse found him sitting in a chair, humming the old song to himself. His eyes were closed. His breathing was soft. He looked, for the first time in his life, exactly his age.