My name is Ahmed.

I’m 34 years old and on September 23rd, 2019, I was supposed to die.

I served as an elite royal guard in Saudi Arabia for 8 years.

But instead of facing execution, I’m here today because Jesus Christ performed the impossible.

And let me tell you how reading one forbidden book changed everything.

I was born in Riyad in 1989 to what everyone considered a blessed family.

My father served as I imam at one of the city’s most respected mosques and my mother came from a lineage that traced back to the early companions of the prophet.

From my earliest memories, I was shaped to be the perfect Saudi man.

Every morning began with fajger prayers.

Every decision was filtered through Islamic teaching and every dream I harbored centered around serving Allah and my kingdom.

My childhood was filled with Quranic recitation competitions where I consistently place first.

By age 12, I had memorized over half of the Quran, earning praise from religious leaders throughout our district.

My father would beam with pride as visitors complimented him on raising such a devoted son.

I lived for those moments of approval, those confirmations that I was walking the righteous path.

When I turned 18, military service called and I excelled beyond everyone’s expectations.

My physical fitness combined with my unwavering devotion to Islamic principles caught the attention of recruitment officers for the Royal Guard.

At 20, I received the letter that would define my identity for the next 8 years.

I had been selected for the Elite Royal Guard unit, a position that less than 1% of applicants ever achieve.

The day I first put on that uniform, I felt like I was wearing the armor of righteousness itself, the deep green fabric, the golden insignia, the weight of the ceremonial sword at my side.

I was no longer just armed the imam’s son.

I was armed the royal guard, protector of the kingdom, defender of the faith.

My family gathered for photographs, my mother weeping with joy, my father declaring it the proudest moment of his life.

My duties took me into the inner circles of power.

I stood guard during meetings with foreign dignitaries, protected high ranking royals during public appearances, and maintained security at state functions.

The salary was exceptional, allowing me to save substantial amounts for my future marriage.

My social standing elevated dramatically.

When I walked through the markets in uniform, shopkeepers would offer me tea.

Children would stare in admiration and young women would glance respectfully before looking away.

My devotion to Islam deepened during these years.

I led prayers for my fellow guards, organized charitable contributions during Ramadan, and planned meticulously for my pilgrimage to Mecca.

Every aspect of my life aligned perfectly with Islamic teaching.

I fasted beyond the required days gave more than the mandated charity and study hadith during my free time.

By 2018, my life seemed complete.

I was engaged to Fatima, a beautiful and devout woman from an excellent family.

We had begun planning our wedding, discussing the number of children we wanted, dreaming about the house we would build.

My commanding officers spoke of potential promotions.

My parents had never been prouder.

Can you imagine having everything you ever wanted only to discover it was all built on sand? That perfect life I had constructed was about to crumble in ways I never could have imagined.

November 2018 changed everything, though I had no idea at the time.

I was assigned to escort a delegation of foreign diplomatic visitors during a high level trade meeting.

These assignments were routine, but this particular group included James Morrison, an aid from the American embassy.

What struck me immediately was not his appearance or his diplomatic credentials, but something I couldn’t quite identify at first.

During the second day of meetings, a security threat emerged.

Someone had called in a bomb threat to the building where negotiations were taking place.

While my fellow guards and the foreign security personnel scrambled with obvious tension, James remained completely calm.

Not the artificial calm of someone trying to appear brave, but a genuine peace that seemed to radiate from within him.

As we evacuated the building and waited for bomb disposal teams, I watched him comfort other delegation members.

his voice steady and reassuring.

After the allclear was given, and we returned to our duties, curiosity got the better of me.

During a quiet moment, I asked James about his remarkable composure.

He smiled and said something that would haunt me for weeks afterward.

He told me that his peace came from knowing that his life was in God’s hands and that no matter what happened, he was secure in his relationship with Jesus Christ.

The name Jesus struck me like a physical blow.

As a devout Muslim, I knew Jesus as Issa, a respected prophet.

But James spoke of him differently.

He spoke of Jesus as if he were alive, as if he were personally involved in James’ daily life.

The conversation was brief, but it planted something in my mind that I couldn’t shake.

On the final day of the diplomatic visit, as I was conducting a final security sweep of James’s hotel room, I discovered something that would alter the course of my entire existence.

There, partially hidden beneath some papers on the desk, was a small book with Arabic text.

My training demanded that I confiscate any materials left behind by foreign visitors.

But when I picked up the book, I realized what it was.

It was an Arabic translation of the New Testament.

I should have immediately reported it to my supervisors.

Every protocol demanded that uh I turn in this forbidden material.

Instead, I found myself staring at the cover, my hands trembling slightly.

The Arabic script was beautiful, elegant in its calligraphy.

James had left it behind accidentally, or so it seemed.

For reasons I still cannot fully explain, I slipped the book inside my jacket and carried it home.

For three weeks, that book sat hidden in my apartment like a dangerous secret.

I placed it inside a wooden box beneath my bed.

But I could feel its presence constantly.

Every prayer I performed, every verse of the Quran I recited.

I was aware of that forbidden book lying just meters away.

The guilt was overwhelming, but so was an inexplicable curiosity that grew stronger each day.

Finally, on a December evening, after completing my night prayers, I retrieved the book from its hiding place.

I told myself I was conducting research, that understanding Christian beliefs would make me a better Muslim, better equipped to defend my faith.

I open to the first page with shaking hands.

The Gospel of Matthew began with a genealogy tracing Jesus’s lineage.

As I read the Arabic words, I expected to find obvious contradictions or blasphemous statements that would confirm my preconceptions about Christianity.

Instead, I found myself drawn into the narrative.

The language was respectful, the tone reverent, and the stories, while different from what I knew from Islamic teaching possessed the strange power.

When I reached the sermon on the mount, something extraordinary happened.

Jesus’s words about loving your enemies, about turning the other cheek, about the meek inheriting the earth, struck me with such force that I had to stop reading.

These weren’t the words of a mere prophet or teacher.

They carried an authority that seemed to transcend human wisdom.

Night after night, I found myself returning to that book.

I would perform my Islamic prayers dutifully, then secretly read passages from the New Testament.

The contrast between my public devotion and private curiosity created an internal war that threatened to tear me apart.

I was living a double life and the strain was becoming unbearable.

Ask yourself, have you ever encountered truth so powerful it scared you? That’s exactly what was happening to me.

The more I read about Jesus, the more questions arose about everything I had believed since childhood.

The Jesus I discovered in those pages wasn’t just the Isa of Islamic teaching.

This was someone who claimed to be the son of God who promised eternal life who spoke with absolute authority about forgiveness and salvation.

By late December, something had shifted deep within my heart.

Despite every effort to resist.

Despite every prayer asking Allah to remove these doubts, I found myself believing that Jesus was exactly who he claimed to be.

In a moment of desperate honesty, alone in my apartment after midnight prayers, I whispered my first prayer to Jesus Christ.

In that moment, I crossed a line I could never uncross.

I knew my life would never be the same.

March 15th, 2019 began like any other day.

I woke before dawn for fajger prayers, performed my ablutions with the same careful precision I had practiced for years and recited the familiar verses from the Quran.

To anyone watching, I appeared to be the same devoted Muslim I had always been.

But inside, I was carrying a secret that was eating me alive.

For 3 months, I had been living as a closet Christian while maintaining my public Islamic identity.

The internal conflict was destroying me.

Every Islamic prayer felt like a betrayal of my new found faith uh in Jesus.

Every time I proclaimed that uh there is no god but Allah, my heart whispered the name of Jesus.

I had developed an elaborate system of hiding my Christian activities.

I would read the New Testament after my Islamic prayers, treating it like supplementary study.

I had even gone so far as to carefully place the small Arabic New Testament inside the cover of my personal Quran, creating the perfect disguise.

That morning, as I prepared for duty at the Royal Guard barracks, I made what would prove to be a fatal decision.

Instead of leaving the New Testament hidden in my apartment, as I usually did, I decided to bring it with me.

I had been reading the Gospel of John the night before and I was desperate to continue during any break in my duties.

I convinced myself that the Quran cover would provide perfect camouflage that no one would ever think to look inside.

The routine dormatory inspection was announced during our morning briefing.

These inspections happened monthly, a standard security protocol to ensure that Royal Guard quarters maintained proper standards and that no unauthorized materials were present.

I had been through dozens of these inspections without ancident.

My locker was always immaculate, my personal items properly arranged, my Islamic materials prominently displayed.

When the security officers reached my section, I stood at attention with complete confidence.

My Quran sat prominently on the top shelf of my locker exactly where it should be.

Officer Hassan, a man I had known for 3 years, began his methodical examination of my belongings.

He checked my uniforms, examined my personal hygiene items, and verified that all equipment was properly maintained.

Then he reached for my Quran.

The moment his hands touched the book, I felt my heart stop.

I watched in helpless horror as he picked it up, noticing immediately that it felt different, heavier than it should have been.

His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he opened the cover.

Time seemed to stop completely as the small Arabic New Testament tumbled out of my Quran and hit the concrete floor with a sound that echoed through the entire dormatory.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Every guard in the vicinity turned to stare at the forbidden book lying at my feet.

Officer Hassan’s face transformed from confusion to disgust to rage in the span of seconds.

He stared at me with an expression I had never seen before, as if I had suddenly become something inhuman, something abhorrent.

The other guards backed away instinctively, creating a circle of space around me as if I carried a contagious disease.

Traitor Hassan spot in Arabic.

His voice filled with venom.

Christian dog.

Within minutes, I was surrounded by security personnel.

The handcuffs felt called against my wrists as they clicked into place.

As I was led through the barracks, past men I had served alongside for years.

Their faces showed a mixture of shock, betrayal, and revulsion.

These were my brothers in arms.

men who had trusted me with their lives and now they looked at me as if I were their greatest enemy.

The charges were read to me in a sterile interrogation room.

Apostasy from Islam, possession of Christian materials while serving in a position of trust, potential threat to national security.

In Saudi Arabia, I knew exactly what these charges meant.

There was only one penalty for apostasy and it was death.

The news of my arrest spread through the Royal Guard units like wildfire.

By evening, my commanding officers had called my father to inform him of my disgrace.

The phone call lasted less than 5 minutes.

My father, the respected Imam who had raised me to be a model Muslim, publicly disowned me that very night during evening prayers at his mosque.

He declared that he had no son named Ahmed, that I had brought shame upon our family name that could never be erased.

My mother, when she learned the news, collapsed in grief.

My younger brothers were so ashamed that they petitioned the courts to legally change their surnames to avoid association with my crimes.

Fatima, my fiance, broke our engagement immediately and returned the engagement ring to my family with a letter expressing her disgust at my betrayal of everything sacred.

Within 24 hours, I had lost everything.

my career, my family, my future, my reputation, my freedom.

The newspapers picked up uh the story referring to me as the traitor guard and uh using my case as an example of how western influences could corrupt even the most trusted servants of the kingdom.

I had become a national symbol of shame and I was facing the death penalty for the crime of believing in Jesus Christ.

In a single day, my entire world had collapsed and there seemed to be no way back from the precipicees I had fallen over.

Alhare maximum security prison became my world.

On March 16th, 2019, the concrete walls of my solitary confinement cell measured exactly 6 ft by 8 ft with a single small window positioned too high for me to see anything except a thin slice of sky.

The cell contained nothing but a thin mattress on the floor, a metal toilet, and a small sink that produced only cold water.

This would be my home until my execution date.

The guards made it clear from my first day that I was not just any prisoner.

I was the apostate, the traitor who had betrayed Islam while serving in the most trusted position in the kingdom.

They took special pleasure in reminding me of my shame.

Every meal delivery came with verbal abuse.

They would spit near my cell door and call me a Christian dog.

Some guards would wake me deliberately during what they knew were my prayer times, shouting that Allah would never hear the prayers of a traitor.

The psychological warfare began immediately.

They would play recordings of Quranic uh at high volume during the night, preventing sleep while reminding me of the faith I had abandoned.

Other times, they would bring Islamic scholars to stand outside my cell and recite verses about the punishment awaiting apostates in hell.

The constant mental assault was designed to break my spirit long before my body would face execution.

June 15th, 2019.

Arrived with the sound of chains outside my cell.

I was brought before Judge Al-Rashid, a man known throughout the kingdom for his strict interpretation of Islamic law.

The courtroom was packed with observers, including journalists and religious leaders who had come to witness the sentencing of the infamous Royal Guard Apostate.

The proceedings lasted less than 30 minutes.

Judge Al-Rashid read the charges against me in a voice that carried no emotion.

Apostasy from Islam.

Possession of Christian materials while in a position of public trust.

Betrayal of the sacred oath I had taken as a royal guard.

When he asked if I had anything to say in my defense, I remained silent.

What defense could there be? I was guilty of everything they accused me of.

The death sentence was pronounced with ceremonial gravity.

I would be executed by beheading on September 23rd, 2019, exactly 100 days from the date of sentencing.

In Saudi Arabia, there are no appeals for apostasy cases.

The sentence was final, and my remaining time on Earth could be counted in days.

Back in my cell, I began a countdown that would torment me for months.

95 days left to live.

94 days, 93.

Each morning brought me one day closer to my death.

And the weight of that reality pressed down on me like a physical force.

I had never imagined that time could move so slowly and so quickly at the same time.

The other prisoners knew my story, and their treatment ranged from curiosity to outright hostility.

Some would whisper to me through the walls, asking what it felt like to know the exact date of my death.

Others, the more devout Muslims among them, would threaten violence if they ever encountered me outside solitary confinement.

They considered killing an apostate to be a religious duty that would earn them favor with Allah.

As the weeks passed, the psychological pressure became almost unbearable.

Doubt began creeping into my mind like poison.

Had I made the biggest mistake of my life? Was my newfound faith in Jesus worth dying for? The Islamic scholars who visited my cell would spend hours trying to convince me to recount my Christian beliefs and return to Islam.

They promised that if I publicly renounced Christianity and reaffirmed my faith in Allah, my sentence could be commuted to life imprisonment.

The temptation to save my life by denying Jesus became overwhelming during the darkest moments.

I would lie awake at night staring at the ceiling, wrestling with questions that had no easy answers.

If I died for my faith, would anyone even remember my sacrifice? Would my death serve any purpose? Or would it simply be a waste of a young life? These thoughts tormented me more than any physical torture could have.

Imam Abdullah visited me regularly during those months.

A elderly man with kind eyes who genuinely seemed to care about my soul.

He would sit outside my cell for hours reading verses from the Quran and explaining how Allah was merciful to those who repented sincerely.

He painted vivid pictures of the eternal paradise that awaited those who died as faithful Muslims and equally vivid descriptions of the hell that awaited apostates.

Have you ever been in a place so dark you couldn’t see any way out that describes my mental state during those long months on death row? Some days I would pace my tiny sill like a caged animal, counting steps to maintain some sense of control.

Other days I would curl up on my mattress and weep until no more tears would come.

September 20th, 2019 arrived like a harbinger of doom.

3 days before my scheduled execution, I had survived 97 days on death row, but my time was running out.

The guards began making comments about my final meal, about whether I wanted to write any last letters.

The reality of my impending death crush it over me with new intensity.

That night, alone in my cell.

With only 72 hours left to live, I reached the lowest point of my entire existence.

I fell to my knees on the cold concrete floor and cried out in desperation, “Jesus, if you’re real, if you truly care about me, I need you now more than I’ve ever needed anything.

I’m about to die for believing in you, and I need to know that you’re worth it.

” In that moment of complete despair, I was about to discover that my story was just beginning.

September 21st, 2019.

Around 2:00 in the morning, I was lying on my thin mattress, staring at the ceiling of my cell.

Sleep had become impossible as my execution date approached.

My mind raced with thoughts of death, of eternity, of whether I had made the right choice.

The silence in the prison was complete except for the occasional footsteps of guards making their rounds.

I had exactly 46 hours left to leave.

I was praying desperately, begging Jesus to give me courage for what was coming when something extraordinary began to happen.

The temperature in my cell, which had been uncomfortably cold, suddenly became perfectly warm and comfortable.

At first, I thought uh the heating system had been turned on.

But then I noticed something that made my heart stop.

A soft golden light was beginning to fill my cell.

This was not the harsh fluorescent lighting from the hallway or the beam from a guard’s flashlight.

This light seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once, growing steadily brighter until my entire cell was illuminated with the most beautiful radiance I had ever seen.

The light was warm and alive, pulsing gently like heartbeat.

I sat up on my mattress, my entire body trembling with a mixture of fear and wonder.

Then I saw him in the corner of my cell.

A figure began to materialize within the golden light.

He was tall and wearing flowing white robes that seemed to be made of the light itself.

His hair was long and dark, his beard neatly trimmed, and his skin had uh the warm olive tone of Middle Eastern man, but it was his eyes that captured me completely.

They were eyes filled with infinite love, infinite compassion and infinite understanding.

There was no condemnation in those eyes.

No disappointment, only pure love for me.

His hands were visible and I could clearly see the scars from nails that had pierced his palms.

His feet bare beneath his robes also bore the marks of crucifixion.

I knew immediately who this was.

This was Jesus Christ, the son of God, standing in my death row prison cell.

He spoke to me in perfect Arabic.

His voice carrying an authority and gentleness that penetrated to the deepest parts of my soul.

Ahmed, he said, and hearing my name spoken with such love nearly overwhelmed me.

Do not be afraid.

I am with you.

I fell to my knees on the concrete floor, tears streaming down my face.

The presence of Jesus was more real, more tangible than anything I had ever experienced in my physical life.

I could feel his love washing over me like waves, drowning out every fear, every doubt, every moment of despair I had endured over the past months.

My Lord,” I whispered, barely able to speak through my tears.

“I am so afraid.

I do not know if I am strong enough to die for you.

” Jesus stepped closer to me, and I could feel the warmth radiating from his presence.

“Your suffering has not been in vain,” he said, his voice filled with tenderness.

“I have heard every prayer you have whispered in this cell.

I have seen every tear you have shed.

I have been with you through every moment of darkness.

He knelt down beside me.

And when he placed his scarred hand on my shoulder, peace flooded through my entire being.

It was not just the absence of fear, but the presence of perfect peace that transcended any earthly understanding.

For the first time in months, my mind became completely still.

I have a plan for your life that you cannot yet see.

Jesus continued, “Trust me completely.

Your story is not ending tomorrow.

It is just beginning.

I will make a way where there seems to be no way.

” The conversation lasted exactly 1 hour, though it felt like both an instant and an eternity.

Jesus spoke to me about my family, assuring me that he loved them deeply and that my witness would plant seeds in their hearts that would grow in time.

He told me about the ministry he was preparing for me, about the people around the world who would hear my testimony and find hope in their own dark circumstances.

He showed me glimpses of my future that seemed impossible from my current situation.

I saw myself standing before crowds of people sharing the story of his miraculous intervention.

I saw letters from persecuted Christians around the world who had been encouraged by my testimony.

I saw myself free married to a godly woman leading others to faith in Christ.

Remember Jesus said as the vision began to fade, nothing is impossible with God, tell the world what you have seen and heard.

Let them know that I am still performing miracles for those who believe in me.

As his presence began to withdraw, the golden light slowly dimmed.

But the peace he had given me remained.

The fear that had consumed me for months was completely gone.

replaced by an unshakable confidence in God’s perfect plan.

My physical circumstances had not changed.

I was still a condemned prisoner facing execution in 36 hours.

But everything else had been transformed.

The guards who brought my breakfast that morning noticed the change immediately.

Instead of the terrified, broken man they had been tormenting for months, they found me singing hymns and praising God, my countenance had been completely transformed.

I went from being a terrified prisoner to a confident witness for Jesus Christ.

I knew with absolute certainty that God was about to perform a miracle that would demonstrate his power to an entire nation.

Jesus had kept every promise he had ever made, and he was about to keep this one, too.

September 22nd, 2019, at exactly 3:47 in the afternoon, 20 hours and 13 minutes before my scheduled execution, I heard the sound of keys jungling outside my cell door.

This was unusual because meal times had already passed and exercise periods were not scheduled for condemned prisoners.

I was sitting on my mattress reading from memory the scripture verses I had memorized when warden al- Mahmood himself appeared at my cell door with an expression I had never seen before.

His face showed confusion, perhaps even bewilderment, as he unlocked my cell door with hands that seemed to be trembling slightly.

Behind him stood two guards and a man in an expensive suit whom I did not recognize.

The warden entered my cell and looked at me with an expression that mixed disbelief with something approaching or Ahmed, he said, his voice lacking its usual authority.

You are to be released immediately.

The words hit me like a physical blow.

released 20 hours before my execution.

I stared at him in complete shock, unable to process what I was hearing.

This was impossible.

In Saudi Arabia, death sentences for apostasy are never commuted.

There are no lastm minute reprieves, no appeals processes, no presidential pardons.

Once the sentence is pronounced, it is carried out without exception.

The man in the expensive suit stepped forward and uh introduced himself as a representative from the American embassy.

He explained rapidly that international human rights organizations had mounted an unprecedented pressure campaign on the Saudi government.

The European Union had threatened economic sanctions.

The United Nations had issued formal condemnations.

Most surprisingly, several influential American business leaders had privately pressured the Saudi royal family to reconsider my case.

What happened next still seems like a dream to me.

Within 30 minutes, I was changed out of my prison uniform and into civilian clothes.

My few personal belongings were returned to me, including the small Arabic New Testament that had started this entire ordeal.

A series of documents were placed before me to sign, including an agreement that I would immediately leave Saudi Arabia and never return.

The embassy representative explained that a special flight had been arranged.

I would be flown directly to the United States where I had been granted political asylum as a refugee fleeing religious persecution.

Everything had been coordinated at the highest levels of government.

I was going from death row to freedom in a matter of hours.

As I walked out of Alher prison, the same gates that I had expected to leave only as a dead body, I could barely comprehend what was happening.

The late afternoon sun felt warm on my face for the first time in 6 months.

The air smelled sweet and fresh compared to the stale atmosphere of my cell.

Every sensation seemed heightened, as if I was experiencing the world with completely new senses.

Jesus had kept his promise exactly as he had given it.

He had made a way where there seemed to be no way.

The flight to the United States was the longest 6 hours of my life.

I sat in that airplane seat 30,000 ft above the earth, marveling at the miracle that had just taken place.

Less than 24 hours earlier, I had been a condemned prisoner with no hope of survival.

Now I was a free man traveling to a new country where I could worship Jesus Christ openly without fear of death.

When I landed at Dallas International Airport, I was met by Pastor Michael Thompson and uh his wife Sarah, who had volunteered through a Christian refugee assistance program to sponsor my resettlement.

They welcomed me with tears in their eyes and genuine love in their hearts.

For the first time in months, I was surrounded by people who celebrated my faith rather than condemning it.

Starting over in America was both exhilarating and terrifying.

I arrived with nothing but the clothes on my back and a heart full of gratitude to God.

Pastor Thompson’s church community rallied around me, providing temporary housing, helping me learn English, and connecting me with job opportunities.

Every day brought new challenges, but also new evidences of God’s provision and care.

Within 6 months, I was sharing my testimony at churches across Texas.

Word spread about the Saudi royal guard who had been miraculously saved from execution and invitations began pouring in from around the country.

God had indeed prepared a ministry for me that reached far beyond anything I could have imagined during my darkest days in prison.

Two years later, I met Rebecca, a beautiful Christian woman who had been praying for persecuted Christians around the world.

She had actually been praying specifically for my situation before we ever met, having heard about my case through missionary networks.

Our courtship was a testimony to God’s perfect timing and his ability to restore what the enemy had tried to destroy.

Today I lead a ministry called uh Impossible Rescue which provides assistance to Christians fleeing persecution in the Middle East.

We have helped over 300 believers find safety and new lives in countries where they can worship freely.

Every person we assist is a reminder of God’s faithfulness and his heart for the persecuted church.

The challenges continue.

I can never return to Saudi Arabia, which means I will never see my family again unless they choose to visit me, which seems unlikely.

Extremist groups have issued threats against my life for my public testimony.

Some days, the loneliness and isolation of being cut off from my cultural roots feels overwhelming.

But every morning when I wake up as a free man, I remember that I should not be alive.

Every breath I take is is a gift that Jesus purchased for me through his miraculous intervention.

Every opportunity I have to share my testimony is a chance to honor the one who saved me from certain death.

I am asking you right now as someone who has experienced the impossible firsthand.

Is there something God is calling you to do that seems impossible? Are you facing a situation that appears hopeless? I am living proof that our God specializes in impossible situations.

If Jesus can save a condemned Saudi royal guard 20 hours before his execution, he can save anyone.

If he can turn a death sentence into a testimony that reaches around the world, he can transform your impossible situation into his opportunity for a miracle.

Do not wait for a prison cell to surrender everything to him.

Your impossible situation is God’s opportunity to show his power and love to a watching world.

To Jesus Christ who turns death sentences into testimonies and makes ways where there seems to be no way.

Be all the glory forever and ever.

Amen.