[Intro]
[Five-beat shield strikes begin; the fifth accent is always missing.]

[Verse 1]
At Hel’s iron gateway the hinges hung bent,
Cold breath and grave vapor poured through every rent.
Garm scraped his claws through a carpet of shields,
His muzzle still red from the watch at those fields.
Týr wrapped his strap round the arm that remained,
The leather was dark where the old stump had pained.
He carried no speech for the hound at the grate,
Only a sword and a walk toward the gate.

[Pre-Chorus]
The wolf took my hand; this hound takes the rest.
No scale weighs justice when teeth reach the chest.
Yet someone must stand where the dead legions flood—
One hand on the sword, one boot in the blood.

[Chorus]
Hound at the gate, come measure my fate,
Bite through the mail; you won’t pass this gate.
Hound at the gate, our hour has grown late;
Your throat meets my iron, my ribs meet your weight.
No victor walks home from the bargain we make—
Two bodies will bar what no wall now can take.

[Verse 2]
Garm leapt without warning, a grey-red blur;
Týr’s blade cut the shoulder and tangled in fur.
The hound closed his jaws where the breastplate had split,
And iron teeth entered through leather and knit.
Týr drove with his shoulder, then twisted the blade;
Black blood struck the lintel and steamed where it sprayed.
They rolled through dead spear shafts and mud at the door,
Each tore new wounds, and none would close once more.

[Duet — Týr / Garm]
[The instruments stop after each short vocal exchange.]

[Garm]
Your hand fed the wolf.

[Týr]
My hand bought a chain.

[Garm]
Your laws fed the halls.

[Týr]
My laws carry stain.

[Garm]
Then die with your order.

[Týr]
Die guarding your cage.

[Both]
No judge waits beyond us.
No law outlives rage.

[Chorus]
Hound at the gate, come measure my fate,
Bite through the mail; you won’t pass this gate.
Hound at the gate, our hour has grown late;
Your throat meets my iron, my ribs meet your weight.
No victor walks home from the bargain we make—
Two bodies will bar what no wall now can take.

[Instrumental]
[Bowed lyre and low guitars circle the missing fifth accent while floor toms slow to a pulse.]

[Bridge]
Týr felt the teeth settle close to his heart,
The hound felt the sword push its vertebrae apart.
He could have pulled backward; the gate would be cleared.
He leaned into Garm and completed what he feared.
The sword left his fingers, the jaw would not cease;
They held one another in terrible peace.

[Final Chorus]
Hound at the gate, neither master nor slave,
We close this one doorway and open one grave.
Hound at the gate, our blood fills the grate;
No law gives it meaning, no song alters fate.
The dead step around us through iron and mud—
The gate remains open, but choked with our blood.

[Outro]
[Three dry drum knocks state the horn motif; no choir enters.]

One hand lies empty.
One jaw remains closed.
The law and the watchdog
Lie where they opposed.