**This is my first poem posting on YWS. Be as harsh as possible. Thank you for reading**
A face...
God made yours.
Your mother carried you for nine months.
She didn't get a glimpse or even a sneak peek of what your face may bring.
A face so perfect.
The word 'perfect' seems only minor.
A face...
God didn't hurry to make yours.
He took his time,
asked opinons of his angels.
He sculpted, cut, colored, moved, shaped, and pasted.
A face...
Finally finished.
God smiles, kisses your forehead.
"Believe in me, child. For you are work of mine."
The Lord cupped his hands together,
and blew glitter on your face.
When you grow up, they will become freckles.
A face...
God made yours.
Your mother carried you for nine months.
She didn't get a glimpse or even a sneak peek of what your face may bring.
A face so perfect.
The word 'perfect' seems only minor.
A face...
God didn't hurry to make yours.
He took his time,
asked opinons of his angels.
He sculpted, cut, colored, moved, shaped, and pasted.
A face...
Finally finished.
God smiles, kisses your forehead.
"Believe in me, child. For you are work of mine."
The Lord cupped his hands together,
and blew glitter on your face.
When you grow up, they will become freckles.
