My Poinsettia

My poinsettia still blooms bright,
To remind me of a glorious night;
When a special babe was born,
To heal a world broken and torn.

The red of the petals has not been shed,
Unlike the blood of Christ, bright red;
A crown of thorns He wore for me,
To heal my soul and set me free.

My poinsettia is bright and gay,
But sadness reigned upon that day,
When He hung on a cross to bleed,
To fill my soul's every need.

How can I repay that price,
He died for me, such a sacrifice;
I know the debt I cannot pay,
But I only have to follow the Way.

So as the poinsettia brightly stands,
I think of my Lord, my God so grand;
I know the gift He gave to me,
I'll be with Him eventually.