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’m sure if He had, that little black dog
Knew right from the first He was God,
That he needed no proofs that Christ was divine,
But just worshiped the ground He trod.
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, that one called a stone.
And Oh, I am sure that little black dog
With a true 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 led Him away, would have trotted behind
And followed Him quite to the cross.
— Elizabeth Gardner Reynolds
