“Sickness,” he said, his voice a low Texas gravel that poured out of the massive speakers, “is a lie from the pit of hell. And you don’t negotiate with a lie. You don’t ask nicely for a lie to leave. You command it.”
“You,” he said. “The woman in the chair. You’ve been sitting in that lie for eleven years. The Lord says tonight, the anointing breaks the yoke.” kenneth copeland healing
In the side room, a young woman with a clipboard asked Delia to sign a release form for the broadcast. Martha looked at her mother’s legs. They were still shaking. The pain was still there, hidden beneath the adrenaline and the roaring crowd. She knew, with a cold certainty, that the wheelchair would be waiting for them at the bus. The healing wouldn’t survive the three-hour drive back to Arkansas. “Sickness,” he said, his voice a low Texas
Delia’s eyes were wet. She whispered, “Martha, push me forward.” You command it
“I can’t,” she whispered.
Then, he arrived.
“That’s the lie talking,” Copeland said, and he smiled again. “You can. The healing is already done. You just have to get up and walk into it.”