He paced the stage, a panther in polished shoes. He told stories of tumors vanishing, of blind eyes popping open like window shades. He laughed—a sharp, sudden cackle that made the front row flinch and then laugh along, nervously.
He descended the steps, flanked by two burly men in headsets. He walked right up to her, and Martha had to step back. He smelled of expensive cologne and coffee. He leaned down, his face inches from her mother’s, and for a moment, Martha saw something in his eyes—not malice, but a fierce, unblinking certainty. He believed. That was the terrifying part. He absolutely, completely believed. kenneth copeland healing
Delia was standing. Her face was a mask of agony and ecstasy. Her legs shook. The knot in her spine screamed. But she was vertical. He paced the stage, a panther in polished shoes
He grabbed her hand. His grip was strong, almost too strong. He pulled her to her feet. For one horrifying second, Delia’s knees buckled, and Martha thought she would fall. But Copeland held her, his arm like an iron bar around her waist. The worship band struck a single, swelling chord. He descended the steps, flanked by two burly men in headsets
“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.”