The pulpit stone was gray and warm,
  beneath the priest of fire.
Each flaming word a dread alarm -
  portentious and dire.

"Your ways must change!" he did extoll
  with booming voice and spittle.
"Or hell will claim your timeless soul
  to dance to Satan's Fiddle!"

Some people who, enfeared, did try
  to mend their sinful ways.
With hope that cleaner souls would buy
  more peace at End-of-Days.

But others left the place unmoved -
  they stayed the way they were.
And though their ways did not improve,
  to sin was still to err.

Then years did pass; the reverend died.
  So too did all his people.
That pulpit where he stood with pride
  lay crumbling 'neath the steeple.

Whatever thoughts of wrong or right
  lie quiet like these motes in light.
No matter what the old man said,
  your life's your life, and dead is dead.