Classic Poem

‘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.’