Mirrors

Cerulean skies, oceans deep,
Mirrors of a glorious saviour,
Rolling hills of vibrant green,
Reflections of a plan before time.

Blanketed canvas of cotton fields,
Mirrors of a sin wiped clean,
Reddened clay now hard as stone,
Reflections of a God made known.

Grey and ruined, bandaids set in high,
Mirrors of a terrible pride,
Black as night, holed and crumbling,
Reflections of the judgment due.

Tanned, now scarlet, a sun setting low,
Mirrors of a new dawn.
Like the son, this Moon reflects a brighter call,
Reflections of a Lamb who died once for all.

Writing flows...titles don't, isn't it strange how that works?
What can I possibly comment on your writing...i'm a fan too!

I'm glad it's not just me. I sometimes spend more time trying to title a poem than I spent writing it. True story. Another true story; fantastic poem! Absolutely.

It's so true. I think it's harder than actually writing the poem sometimes. It's probably my least favourite part of writing!