I saw a throne and a king seated on it. He had a look about him that emitted might and power and I knew he was the King, not just a king, but the KING. The throne room was richly furnished, as one that belonged to a monarch of surpassing wealth. He and it seemed to define beauty, righteousness, and holiness.
Suddenly, the double doors at the back of the room opened and one of his subjects stomped in and trooped down the red silk carpet to stand before the King. I knew then that something was terribly wrong. He didn’t bow or prostrate himself before his king. He instead began to bring a list of his demands to the King, placing blame on Him for a plethora of things that were wrong in his own life. Without a word from the King, he was ushered sternly out of the throne room.
Then without warning, a side door opened and a young boy ran into the room, making a beeline for the King. No one sought to delay or hinder him. He climbed up onto the King’s lap and gave Him a huge bear hug.
“Daddy!” he cried. “Abba!”
The King returned the embrace, wrapping His gentle arms around the child and shielding his head from all eyes. I felt my lips tremple and quiver and tears form in my eyes. Which was I? The demanding subject or the son running to his Father?