“God’s woot”
The heretic cries
With whoosh of flame
And softly dies.
Crimson pearls peel from the eyes
Hisses, spits and darkly dries.

“God’s word,”
The priest declaims,
Spits on the faggots
And goes to maim
Another pyre with papal claim
Who cannot recant and show disdain.

“God’s mercy”
These candles shriek
As windy words
Are from them whipped
These monks grown fat, far from meek.
The fire finds flesh and leaves bones sleek.

“God’s justice”
What a transformation
Upon the burners 
And the burned
The festivities reach a termination
With heretics fit for inhalation 

“For the Grace of God”
Years hence the same scene
But Luther’s men stand at stake
The priest recalls he burnt a dean
And as he turns from the bake
He faces God and lets loose a scream
He would unproclaim the edicts sown
For he saw the face once in a dream
And it is blacked, balked, baked, flaked and fallen as his own.