My heart is poinsettia red,
You have filled it with Your own dear blood,
My love in return to all others spread,
None do You exclude, tho you could.
Our efforts to give wax so pitying,
Next to Your humble babe's crying,
Even so, tho some decry harried gift-giving,
It is in such giving we are living, nor dying.
Explosions of shiny foil...
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