Two Dreams, One Throne

This song is autobiographical. I'll include the story.

Song Title: Dreams of the Throne
(Verse 1: The First Dream – Shadows and Loss) In the chill of a Princeton night, February '78, Pam slipped away as the light switched off, sealing her fate. Down in the basement, a splinter's sting, darkness closed in, Monsters arose in my slumber deep, terrors within. Job speaks of visions when sleep falls hard, warnings that shake, God whispering fears to turn us from pride, for mercy's sake. I woke to the news, both parents there, grief like a chain, Evil unseen now haunted my soul, calling my name.
(Chorus: Divine Whisper in the Night) Oh, in a dream, in a vision of night, When deep sleep falls on the weary and worn, He speaks in our ears, terrifies with His light, To turn us from wrong, in His mercy we're born. All days ordained in His book from the start, Before one came to be, He knows every part. Not yet my time, but one day I'll know, The God on the throne, in His glory aglow.
(Verse 2: The Second Dream – Floating and Encounter) Sydney's heat pressed in January '79, divorce in the air, Mother lost in her bottle, TV blaring despair. Spirit floated above, out the window to lights in the street, Shadows pursued, evil whispers, my heart raced to beat. Into a cavern deep, like an underpass wide, A throne rose immense, ancestors bright at its side. Pam and my kin in the glow from behind, But the Light overwhelmed, I bowed low, half-blind.
(Chorus: Divine Whisper in the Night) Oh, in a dream, in a vision of night, When deep sleep falls on the weary and worn, He speaks in our ears, terrifies with His light, To turn us from wrong, in His mercy we're born. All days ordained in His book from the start, Before one came to be, He knows every part. Not yet my time, but one day I'll know, The God on the throne, in His glory aglow.
(Verse 3: The Dialogue and Awakening) "Do you know who I am?" the voice thundered clear, "No, Lord," I whispered, trembling in fear. "But you will," He promised, "Make it your quest." "Can I stay with my sister, my kin in Your rest?" "It is not yet your time," He gently replied, Floated back paralyzed, cried out and broke free inside. From darkness to dawn, faith stirred in my chest, Two dreams that led me to God, eternally blessed.
(Bridge: Reflection on the Scriptures) Like Job in the silence, visions that warn and redeem, Turning our hearts from the pit, in His sovereign scheme. Psalm sings of days written down in His book so true, Every moment ordained, pulling us through. From monsters in grief to the throne's holy fire, He calls in the night, ignites our desire.
(Final Chorus: Divine Whisper in the Night – with Fade-Out) Oh, in a dream, in a vision of night, When deep sleep falls on the weary and worn, He speaks in our ears, terrifies with His light, To turn us from wrong, in His mercy we're born. All days ordained in His book from the start, Before one came to be, He knows every part. Not yet my time, but one day I'll know... The God on the throne, in His glory aglow. (Repeat softly: Not yet my time... one day I'll know...)

This speaks to the appointed nature of death—echoing the voice's declaration that "It is not yet your time," affirming life's boundaries are in God's hands.
• Psalm 139:16 "Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be."
God's foreknowledge of our lifespan ties into the assurance you received: not yet time to stay, but one day you will know Him fully (and reunite with loved ones).
• Job 33:15-17 (again, for the night vision aspect) Reinforces God speaking in deep sleep or night visions to instruct and preserve.

Two Dreams That Changed Everything
It was February 14, 1978. I was living with my family in a long, low ranch house at 101 Winant Road in Princeton, New Jersey. The house stretched out with basements at each end—one near the driveway, the other deeper in the back. That evening, my grandmother, my older sister, my brother, and I had traveled by train and taxi to New York City's Albert Einstein Hospital where my younger sister, Pam was. Pam's body had rejected the kidney transplant. We were there to say goodbye to her as she lay unconcious.
I returned home late, around 11:30 p.m., exhausted and numb. The house felt too quiet. As I headed down to the basement near the driveway to turn off a forgotten light, my hand caught on something sharp—a small splinter embedded near the light switch. I pulled it out, flicked off the light, and left the basement in darkness. Upstairs, I went straight to bed, the weight of the day pressing down on me.
That night, I dreamed of monsters—shadowy, relentless things lurking in the dark corners of the basement, clawing their way toward me. I woke in the morning light, disoriented, surprised to see both my mum and dad in the house. Why wasn't one of them still at the hospital with Pam? Then the truth hit: she had died while my father turned off the life support, right around the time I pulled out that splinter and switched off the light. The monsters in the dream felt like a dark echo of that loss, a bizarre affliction that left me shaken. I didn't believe in evil spirits then—I dismissed it all as grief playing tricks on my mind.
But something had shifted. The world felt heavier, shadowed by forces I couldn't name.
Months later, in early January 1979, my life had uprooted completely. We had moved to Australia. My father had arrived ahead of us, but we soon learned my parents were divorcing. My mother and I settled into a small rental unit near the railway station in Sydney, close to a strip of shops. The place felt temporary, unfamiliar. Down the street, past the station, there was an underpass—dark, echoing, and in my mind, it stretched into something deeper, like a cavern leading nowhere good.
My mother coped by drinking heavily each night. She would sit in front of the television, the volume loud, watching Prisoner—that gritty Australian show about women in Wentworth Detention Centre. The dramatic music and voices carried through the thin walls as I retreated to my room to escape. My bed was pushed close to the window. Streetlights poured in, harsh orange glows falling across my pillow. It was stiflingly hot—no need for blankets. I suffered from sleep apnea, waking gasping, never truly resting. Night after night, I lay there, exhausted but unable to sleep, the TV blaring, lights glaring.
That night, it happened. My spirit lifted, floating above my body. I looked down at myself lying there—pale, still, breathing shallowly under the window. Then I drifted out through the glass, into the night. The streetlights became beacons in the darkness. Shadows moved at the edges—evil presences, dark forms I instinctively knew to avoid. I darted from light to light, seeking safety in their glow. To move faster, I quickened my heart rate, willing myself forward with bursts of panic-fueled energy.
I came upon a cave—perhaps my mind's recreation of that underpass, deepened into something ancient and vast. I floated inside. The passage opened into an enormous cavern. At its center stood a massive throne, imposing and radiant. Behind it, bright lights shimmered, and I sensed my ancestors gathered there—my grandfather among them, and Pam, my sister, her presence warm and near.
A light brighter than anything I had ever seen flooded the space. I shielded my eyes, overwhelmed. Without realizing how, I found myself half-kneeling, bowing before the throne. The light was so intense I couldn't look directly at it, yet it felt alive, personal.
A voice spoke, clear and undeniable: “Do you know who I am?”
“No, Lord,” I answered, trembling.
“But you will.”
“Yes, Lord. I will make it my mission.”
“Can I stay? Do I have to go back?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I want to be with my sister, my grandfather.”
“It is not yet your time. But one day you will know me.”
The encounter ended. I floated back, re-entering my body. But I was paralyzed—aware, breathing, yet unable to move a muscle. Panic rose. I fought to adjust my breathing, struggling to force a sound from my throat. Finally, I managed a weak “Help!”
The spell broke. My mother turned down the TV from the other room and called out an apology for the noise. I lay there, heart pounding, the room ordinary again. I went back to sleep, but I was changed.
Those two dreams—the monsters born of grief in Princeton, and the throne of light in Sydney—were bookends to a season of darkness. The first opened my eyes to evil I hadn't believed in; the second introduced me to a God I hadn't known. Through loss, upheaval, and nights of terror, I came to faith. Pam's death, the splinter, the shadows, the throne—they were all part of a path that led me to believe. And though the journey began in pain, it ended in promise: one day, I will know Him fully.

https://suno.com/s/r86MKBO99vzHON5K

Call to Action for "Dreams of the Throne"
If this song stirs your heart—if you've ever felt the weight of loss, the pull of unseen darkness, or the whisper of something greater calling you—then listen closely.
Today, God is still speaking. Not always in thunder, but sometimes in dreams, in quiet moments of crisis, or in the story of someone else's journey. He turned my grief into faith through two nights of visions. He can do the same for you.
So here’s the call:
• Share your story. Post this song on your social media, in your church group, or with a friend who’s hurting. Tag it #DreamsOfTheThrone and let others know: God pursues us, even in the dark.
• Pray the promise. Right now, wherever you are, whisper these words: “Lord, if You’re real, show me who You are. I want to know You.”
• Step into faith. If you’ve been running from Him—or toward Him—take the next step. Talk to a trusted believer, read the Bible (start with Job 33 or Psalm 139), or join a community where people testify to God’s real work in real lives.
One day we’ll all know Him fully. Until then, let these dreams remind you: it’s not too late, and it’s not your time to give up. He’s waiting on the throne.
Will you answer the call? Share, pray, seek—and watch what God does.