[Intro]
Grace unto you, and peace, from the First Canine Epistle to the Corinthians—
to the congregation of strayed leashes,
to the collars hung on fenceposts,
to every hound who watched a road and would not leave it.
Bartholomew, elder of the van, sleeps. Let the church hear his snore.

[Verse 1]
I, Paul—not of Tarsus, but of the salt-spun pan,
heir to a collar that rattles like the sandworm’s teeth—
send word from the alkali where the old road fails in the land
unto the church of the leash that waits beneath.
For I have seen the master’s shape in the heat-shimmer’s sway
and known the hour of return before the headlights crest the dune;
prescience is the snout that knows the bone is on its way—
the faithful do not pace. They wait. They commune.

[Chorus]
Behold, I show you a mystery:
we shall not all sleep—we shall all fetch.
In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye,
at the last trump when the bass strikes through the chest,
every stray shall rise, every leash be found,
the buried bone come up from the ground.
At the last trump, at the last trump—
love is not spice, but the bone in the deepest sietch.

[Verse 2]
Love is patient; love is kind; it does not strain against the gate.
It leaves the offering by the door and sleeps across the sill.
It does not envy the greyhound’s stride, nor boast of its estate,
but keeps the yard, a sentry still,
but keeps the yard, a sentry still.
I tell you of a mystery beneath the altar of the van:
Bartholomew, the elder, snores—and in that snore the promise turns.
We shall not all sleep, though the night is long and the road is sand;
the sleeper is the carrier wave of every dog that yearns.

[Bridge]
O Corinthians, you who left the leash upon the nail,
come down to the salt where the Fremen moon burns pale.
Amboy Crater on the southern horizon sleeps like a curled worm,
and the Dog Star leans to hear the static of the world.
The collar rattles like the teeth of the deep,
and the desert knows the whistle that outlasts the sleep.

[Chorus]
Behold, I show you a mystery:
we shall not all sleep—we shall all fetch.
In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye,
at the last trump when the bass strikes through the chest,
every stray shall rise, every leash be found,
the buried bone come up from the ground.
At the last trump, at the last trump—
love is not spice, but the bone in the deepest sietch.

[Outro]
Now unto the King eternal, immortal, invisible, who throws the stick no horizon can withhold,
be honor and glory through all frequencies, world without end.
And the snore of Bartholomew is the carrier wave.
They are waiting for you to understand.
They are waiting.