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I wonder if Christ had a little black dog,
All curly and wooly like mine.
With two silk ears and a nose round and wet,
And two eyes, brown and tender, that shine.
I am sure, if He had, 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 His friends and disciples had fled-
Even Peter, the one called the 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 came and took Him away, would have trotted behind
And followed Him quite to the Cross.