Cân fy nhafod fawl y Ceidwad

Cân, fy nhafod, fawl y Ceidwad,
  Dirgel rym ei gnawd
      a'i nerth;
Am y dwyfol waed a roddes
  Nad oes brisio ar ei werth;
Ffrwyth dihalog fru, i brynu
  Byd o afael pechod certh.

Ef o bur, ddihalog Forwyn
  Ganed yma i'n rhyddhau;
Megis dyn â dyn llefarai,
  Had gwirionedd, bu'n ei hau;
Yna'n rhyfedd, gwae ei yrfa,
  Dwys fu modd ei gwblhau.

Hwyr y Swper Olaf hwnnw
  Gyda'i ddewis rai'n gytûn,
Oen y Pasg y bu'n ei fwyta
  Fel y cadwai'r ddeddf yn un;
Yna'n fwyd i'w apostolion
  Ef a'i rhoddes ef ei hun.

Gair yn gnawd, anianol fara
  Gyda'i air yn gnawd a drydd;
Troi y win yn waed yr Arglwydd -
  Beth os uwch na synnwyr fydd?
I oleuo'r galon gywir
  Gorau lamp yw golau ffydd.

Sing, my tongue, the praise of the Saviour,
  The secret power of his flesh
      and it's strength;
About the divine blood that he shed
  On the worth of which is no price;
The fruit of an unspotted womb, to redeem
  A world from the grip of terrible sin.

He from a pure, unspotted Virgin
  Was born here to set us free;
As a man with man he spoke,
  The seed of truth, he was sown;
Then wonderfully, the woe of his course,
  Intense was the manner of fulfilling it.

On the evening of that Last Supper
  With his chosen ones together,
The Pascal Lamb was eaten
  Thus he kept the law as one;
Then as food for the apostles
  He himself gave it.

The Word in flesh, the bread of the soul,
  With his word into flesh he turns;
The wine turns into the blood of the Lord -
  What if it be higher than sense?
To enlighten the true heart
  The best lamp is the light of faith.

Sing, my tongue, the Saviour's glory,
  Of His Flesh,
      the mystery sing;
Of the Blood, all price exceeding,
  Shed by our Immortal King,
Destined, for the world's redemption,
  From a noble Womb to spring.

Of a pure and spotless Virgin
  Born for us on earth below,
He, as Man, with man conversing,
  Stayed, the seeds of truth to sow;
Then He closed in solemn order
  Wondrously His Life of woe.

On the night of that Last Supper,
  Seated with His chosen band,
He, the Paschal Victim eating,
  First fulfils the Law's command;
Then as Food to all his brethren
Gives Himself with His own Hand.

Word-made-Flesh, the bread of nature
  By His Word to Flesh He turns;
Wine into His Blood He changes:
  What though sense no change discerns.
Only be the heart in earnest,
  Faith her lesson quickly learns.