by Ellen Morgan
I wonder if Christ had a little black dog,
All fuzzy and wooley, like mine.
With two silky ears and a nose brown and wet
And two eyes, bright and tender, that shine.
I'm afraid that He hadn't, because I have read
How He prayed in the garden alone
When all of His friends and disciples had fled,
Even Peter, the one called a stone.
But, oh, I am sure, that 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 to the cross.