“Pain, who made thee?” thus I said once

To the grim unpitying monster,

As, one sleepless night, I watched him

Heating in the fire his pincers.

“God Almighty; who dare doubt it?”

With a hideous grin he answered:

“I’m his eldest best-beloved son,

Cut from my dead mother’s bowels”.

“Wretch, thou liest;” shocked and shuddering

To the monster I replied then;

“God is good, and kind, and gracious;

Never made a thing so ugly”.

“Tell me then, since thou know’st better,

Whose I am, by whom begotten”.

“Hell’s thy birth-place, and the Devil

Both thy father and thy mother”.

“Be it so; to me the same ‘tis

Whether I’m God’s son or grandson,

And to thee not great the difference

Once thy flesh between my tongs is”.

“Spare me, spare me, Pain;” I shrieked out,

As the red-hot pincers caught me;

“Thou art God’s son; aye thou’rt God’s self;

Only take thy fingers off me”.