The blood rose red from the stem of thorns
And wooed the Savior with reflected crimson
Weaving between the weapons below her
To bloom above in the destruction of sin.
The rose stood in triumph over the horns
And scorned the one who was blind within.
Triumphant she would wither never
Never would the daisy see the light of Him.
But soft, the Lord does not the lowly scorn
He found the daisy weary, overburdened
The wounds He took on He came to bathe her
And covered in Precious Blood He brought her in.