I wonder if Christ had a little black dog,
All curly and wooly like mine;
With two silky ears and a nose round and wet,
And two eyes, brown and tender, that shine.

I'm sure if He had, that little black dog
Knew right from the start He was God,
That he neeed no proof that Christ was divine
But just worshipped the ground that 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 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 those dear fingers, in agony clasped;
And counting all favors but loss,
When they took Him away would have trotted behind,
And followed Him quietly to the Cross.