I wonder if Christ had a little black dog,
All curly and wooly like mine:
With two (long) silky ears and a nose, round and wet,
And two eyes, brown and tender, that shine.
I am sure, if He had, that that little black dog
Knew, right from the first, He was God;
That he needed no proof that Christ was divine,
And just worshipped the ground where he trod.
I'm afraid that He hadn't, because I have read
How he prayed in the garden, alone;
For all of His friends and disciples had fled
Even Peter, the one called a stone.
And, oh, I am sure that the little black dog,
With a heart so tender and warm,
Would never have left him to suffer alone,
But, creeping right under his arm,
Would have licked the dear fingers, in agony clasped,
And, counting all favors but loss,
When they took him away, would have trotted behind
And Followed Him right to the Cross.