"Will the prison be hard and cold?
Oh, Mamma, will we cry?"
"Yes, my dear; like the saints of old,
We'll suffer before we die."

"Will the tumbril jolt and jar?
Oh, Mamma, will we cry?"
"Yes, my dear; as those exiled far,
We'll journey in tears ere we die."

"Will the blade be cruel and fierce?
Oh, Mamma, will we cry?"
"Yes, my dear; like our Savior pierced,
We'll weep crimson as we die!"

"Will our Heaven be sweet and soft,
Oh, Mamma, after we die?"
"Yes, my dear; and in God's glory lost
We will never more think to cry!"

So the guillotine fell at last,
That instrument fierce and cruel;
But at sight of the glory into which they passed,
They blessed it as Heaven's own tool.