Pererin wyf mewn anial dir (Sychedig am gysuron gwir)

Pererin wyf mewn anial dir,
Sychedig am gysuron gwir;
  Yn crwydro f'amser, a llesgâu,
  O hiraeth pur am dy fwynhau.

Ymdeithydd wyf yn awr o hyd
Mewn maith a thrallodedig fyd;
  Nid yma mae fy nghartre'n wir
  'Rwy'n teithio tua Salem bur.

Carcharor wyf mewn anial wlad,
Yn dysgwyl beunydd am ryddhad;
  O! deuwch oriau, tyred ddydd,
  I'm henaid gwan gael myn'd yn rhydd.

[O, deuwch oriau, tyred ddydd,
 I'm henaid gwan gael myn'd yn rhydd;
   Carcharor wyf mewn anial wlad,
   Yn dysgwyl beunydd am ryddhad.]

Tan rhyw gaethiwed poenus iawn,
Yn dysgwyl foreu,
    disgywyl nawn:
  Mi gara'r fan, mi gara'r dydd,
  A roddo f'enaid trist yn rhydd.

Haul y Cyfiawnder dysglaer cu,
Tywyna trwy bob cwmwl du;
  O tan dy esgyll dwyfol mae
  Y balm o Gilead sy'n iachau.

Mae gras yn rhyw anfeidrol 'stôr,
A doniau ynot fel y môr!
  O gâd i'r truenusaf ddyn
  Gael profi gronyn
      bach o'u rhîn.

Am hyn dysgwyliaf ddydd a nos,
Fel un lluddedig dan dy gro's;
  Ac nid oes arall fan lle mae
  Un gradd o obaith fy iachau.

Ac os bydd iti faddeu 'mai,
Ac o'm harchollion fy iachâu,
  Dy glod, dy ras,
      a'th enw gwiw,
  Gaiff fod fy mhleser
      tra f'wyf byw.

gwelir:
  'Does arnaf eisiau yn y byd
  Ymdeithydd wyf fi 'nawr o hyd

A pilgrim I am in a desert land,
  Thirsty for true comforts;
Spending my time wandering, and fainting,
  From pure longing to enjoy thee.

A traveller I am now still,
In a vast and troubled world;
  Not here is my home truly,
  I am travelling towards pure Salem.

A prisoner I am in a desert land,
Waiting daily for freedom;
  O come ye hours, come thou day,
  For my weak soul to get to go free.

[O come ye hours, come thou day,
 For my weak soul to get to go free;
   A prisoner I am in a desert land,
   Waiting daily for freedom.]

Under some very painful captivity,
Waiting in the morning,
    waiting in the evening:
  I love the spot, I love the day,
  That shall set my sad soul free.

Dear, radiant Sun of Righteousness,
Shine through every black cloud;
  Under thy divine wings is
  The balm of Gilead which heals.

There is grace in some infinite store,
And gifts in thee like the sea!
  O let the most miserable man
  Get to experience a small
      grain of their merit.

Therefore I wait day and night,
Like an exhausted one under thy cross;
  And there is no other spot where there is
  One degree of hope of my healing.

And if thou wilt forgive my fault,
And from my wounds heal me,
  Thy acclaim, thy grace,
      and thy worthy name,
  Shall get to be my pleasure
      while ever I live.