Nerthoedd y tragwyddol Ysbryd

Nerthoedd y tragwyddol Ysbryd,
  Yn haeddiannau'r dwyfol Iawn,
A wna'r fynwes ddiffaith galed
  I ffrwythloni'n hyfryd lawn
    O rasusau,
  Pêr blanhigion nefol wlad.

Creigiau tanllyd Salem waedlyd,
  A fu'n bloeddio ag un llef,
Am Dywysog mawr y bywyd,
  "Ymaith! O! croeshoelier Ef!"
    Gwnaeth i'r rheini
  Wylo edifeirwch pur.

Os disgynni, addfwyn Ysbryd,
  I ryw fynwes ddu fel hyn,
A'i addurno â phur ddelw'r
  Hwn fu farw ar y bryn,
    Mawl a seinia
  Trwy'r holl nefoedd fawr am hyn.

The strengths of the eternal Spirit,
  As the merits of the divine Atonement,  
Make the hard, useless breast
  Bear fruit delightfully fully
    From the graces,
  Of the sweet plants of the heavenly land.

The fiery rocks of bloody Salem,
  Which shouted with one cry,
About the great Prince of the world,
  "Away! O crucify Him!"
    It made those
  Weep pure repentance.

If thou descend, gentle Spirit,
  To some black breast like this,
And adorn it with the pure image
  Of Him who died on the hill,
    Praise it will sound
  Through the whole great heaven about this.