Af at yr orsedd fel yr wyf

Af at yr orsedd fel yr wyf,
  Anfeidrol orsedd gras;
Datguddia'i yno nghlwfau maith,
  A'm holl archollion cas.

Mae ynddo drugareddau fil,
  A chariad heb ddim drai;
A rhyw ffyddlondeb fel y môr,
  At ei gystuddiol rai.

Efe ei hun a'm gwrendy fry,
  Efe a'm cwyd i'r lan;
Efe ei hun yw unig dwr,
  A nawdd fy enaid gwan.

Cyn hir daw
    holl drofeydd y daith
  A'i sormydd certh i ben;
Tragwyddol ganu clod ei ras
  A gaf tu draw i'r llen.

Af at yr orsedd fel yr wyf,
  Anfeidrol orsedd gras;
Datguddio wnaf fy nghlwyfau maith
  A'm holl archollion cas;
Afon loyw redodd allan,
O orseddfa'r nef ei hunan,
I olchi'r euog,
    cas, a'r aflan,
  Halaluia, Halaluia,
Dwr heb ddarfod,
    dwr heb drai.

gwelir:
  Awn bechaduriaid at y dwr
  Cyflawnder nerth cyflawnder gras
  Er maint fy llygredd o bob rhyw
  Nid oes o fewn i mi i gyd
  O tyred Arglwydd saif wrth raid
  Wel dyma gyfoeth gwerthfawr llawn

I will go to the throne as I am,
  The immeasurable throne of grace;
I will reveal there my extensive wounds,
  And all my hated injuries.

There are in it a thousand mercies,
  And love without any ebbing;
And some faithfulness like the sea,
  To his afflicted ones.

He himself will hear me above,
  He will raise me up;
He himself is the only tower,
  And refuge of my weak soul.

Before long shall come
    all the twists of the journey
  And its terrible storms to an end;
Eternally sing of the praise of his grace
  I shall get to do beyond the curtain.

I will go to the throne as I am,
  The immeasurable throne of grace;
I will reveal there my extensive wounds,
  And all my hated injuries;
A clear river ran out,
From the throne of heaven itself,
To wash the guilty, detestable,
    and the unclean,
  Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
Water without vanishing,
    water without ebbing.

To Jesus' throne, unclean I go,
  The Saviour's throne of grace,
To Him disclose my wounds, my woe,
  My sores before Him place.

In Him a million mercies lie,
  His love no words can paint;
With faithful care He will supply
  Each poor, afflicted saint.

Though raised on high, He hears me call,
  He'll lift me from the dust;
My tower, my strength, my God, my all,
  To Him my soul I trust.

Ere long
    the troubles of this life
  And all its storms shall cease;
And I will ever sing the praise
  Of grace for my release.