Aeth heibio et(t)o flwyddyn gron

Aeth heibio eto flwyddyn gron,
  Mae arall bron â gwawrio;
Holl oesoedd byd,
    o dro i dro,
  O dô i dô, ânt heibio.

Mae'r byd ysbrydol, ddydd a nos,
  Yn agos, agos atom;
Nid oes ond llen
    marwoldeb brau
  A dyr yr angau rhyngom.

Mi glywaf lais, O alwad gref!
  Uwch, uwch mae'r llef yn galw;
"Pwy ä i'r bedd yn nesaf un?
  Ai fi fy hun fydd hwnw?"

O Dduw! ar ba fath edau frau
  Mae bythol bethau'n hongian!
Tragwyddol stâd pob marwol ddyn
  Ar linyn bywyd egwan!

O f'enaid, cais cyn angeu glas,
  Sancteiddiol ras i'th buro;
Cais wir adnabod Prynwr byd,
  Mae bywyd bythol ynddo.

[Fy enaid gwan, cyn angeu glas,
   Cais brofi gras i'th buro;
 Ond gwir adnabod Prynwr byd,
   Cei fythol fywyd ynddo.]

- - - - -

Aeth heibio etto flwyddyn gron,
  Mae arall bron ymwawrio;
Holl oesoedd byd,
    o dro i dro -
  O dô i dô'n mynd heibio!

Mae llawer un yn wael ei wedd
  I'r dyfrllyd fedd yn suddo;
A'r llall mewn rhych,
    heb arch o bren,
  Na phrin dywarchen drosto.

Mae'r bach a'r mawr, sy'n cael eu cloi
  Mewn beddau'n rho'i rhybuddion:
A wnaeth y siamplau ddim lleshad,
  Er gwir ddychweliad calon?

Mae'r byd ysbrydol (ddydd a nos)
  Yn agos, agos atom;
Nid oes ond llèn
    marwolder brau
  (A dyr yr angau) rhyngom.

O mynych, mynych clywsom hyn,
  Ond pwy sy'n sỳn ystyrio,
A phwy dan ehang gylch y rhôd
  A fedd gydwybod effro?

I'm tŷb mi a glywaf alwad gref,
  Ar bwy mae'r llef yn galw?
Pwy a â i'w daith yn nesaf un,
  A'i fi fy hun fydd hwnnw?

Ac medd y llef; - cyn angau glas
  Cais brawf o
      ras i'th buro:
Cais wir adnabod Prynwr byd,
  Mae bythol fywyd ynddo.

Ffydd ynddo ef, a rydd i'r gwan
  Anadliad, dan eneidloes;
Mae'n bont, uwch
    dychryniadau'r bedd,
  I ddyn, ar ddiwedd einioes.

Ystyria angau gwethfawr Crist,
  Bu farw'n drist dros bechod:
Dy feïau cladder yn ei fedd,
  A dôs mewn hedd i'r eiddod.

Neshau mae byd, o hir barhad,
  Nid oes diweddiad iddo:
O ddyn ystyria gyflwr sỳn,
  Dy enaid, cyn myn'd yno!

Ca'i wybod beth
    yw'r bythol fyd,
  Pan êl dy fywyd heibio:
Cais wisg: -
    cyfiawnder Iesu gwỳn
  Am danat, cyn myn'd yno.

Os angau sy'n terfynu pryd
  Pob peth,
      drwy'r bywyd isod,
Amser a fydd, ar air y Nâf
  I angau'r olaf ddyrnod!

Pan elo heibio amser bach
  Nid amser mywach mo'no:
Ond trag'wyddoldeb, maith barhad,
  Heb un diweddiad iddo!

gwelir:
  [Duw da / O Dduw] ar ba fath edau frau
  Tragwyddol Arglwydd wrthyt ti

A round year has passed again,
  There is another almost dawning;
All the ages of the world,
    from turn to turn,
  From roof to roof, they pass.

The spiritual world is, day and night,
  Near, near to us;
There is only the curtain
    of fragile mortality
  Which death shall break between us.

I hear a voice, O strong call!
  Louder, louder is the cry calling;
"Who will go to the grave next?
  Will I myself be the one?"

O God, on what kind of fragile thread
  Are eternal things hanging!
The eternal state of mortal man
  On a weak line of life!

O my soul, request before utter death,
  For sacred grace to purify thee;
Request truly to know the world's Redeemer,
  There is everlasting life in him.

[My weak soul, before utter death,
   Seek to experience grace to purify thee;
 But truly to know the world's Redeemer,
   Thou wilt get everlasting life in him.]

- - - - -

A round year has passed again,
  Another is almost dawning;
All the ages of the world,
    from turn to turn -
  From roof to roof going past!

Many a one of poor appearance are
  To the watery grave sinking;
And the other in a furrow,
    without a wooden coffin,
  Nor scarcely a sod over him.

The small and the great, who get locked
  In graves are giving warnings:
And did their examples not make any profit,
  Despite a heart's true return?

The spiritual world is (day and night)
  Near, near to us;
There is only a the fragile
    curtain of mortality
  (That death shall cut) between us.

O often, often we hear this,
  But who is considering it,
And who under the wide circle of the sky
  Possesses an awakened conscience?

I suppose I hear a strong call,
  On whom is the cry calling?
Who shall go next on his journey,
  Shall I myself be he?

And the cry says; - before utter death
  Seek an experience of
      grace to purify thee:
Seek truly to know the world's Redeemer,
  There is everlasting life in him.

Faith in him, shall free the weak
  Breath, under agony of the soul;
He is a bridge, above the
    terrors of the grave,
  For man, at the end of a lifetime.

Consider the precious death of Christ,
  He died sadly for sin:
Thy faults are to be buried in his grave,
    And come in peace to thine own.

Approaching is the world, long to continue,
  There is no end to it:
O man, consider the surprising condition,
  Of thy soul, before going there!

Thou wilt get to know what
    is the everlasting world,
  When thy life passes:
Seek clothing: -
    the white righteousness of Jesus
  Around thee, before going there.

If death is ending the time
  Of every thing,
      throughout the world below,
A time shall be, on the word of the Lord
  For the death of the last day!

When a little time passes
  There shall be time no more:
But an eternity, long to endure,
  Without any end to it!

The year rolls round, and steals away
  The breath that first it gave;
Whate'er we do,
    where'er we be,
  We're trav'lling to the grave.

Our wasting lives grow shorter still
  As months and days increase;
And every beating
    pulse we tell
  Leaves but the number less.

Dangers stand thick through all the ground
  To push us to the tomb,
And fierce diseases wait around,
  To hurry mortals home.

Great God! on what a slender thread
  Hang everlasting things!
Th' eternal states of all the dead
  Upon life's feeble strings.

Waken, O Lord! our drowsy sense,
  To walk this dangerous road;
And if our souls be hurried hence,
  May they be found with God.

[Waken, O Lord! our drowsy sense,
   To walk this dangerous road;
 And if our souls be hurried hence,
   May they be found with God.]

- - - - -

Thee we adore,
    Eternal Name,
  And humbly own to thee

How feeble is
    our mortal frame!
  What dying worms are we!



Our wasting lives
    grow shorter still
  As months and days increase;

And every beating
    pulse we tell
  Leaves but the number less.




The year rolls round,
    and steals away
  The breath that first it gave;

Whate'er we do,
    where'er we be,
  We're trav'lling to the grave.




Dangers stand thick
    through all the ground
  To push us to the tomb,

And fierce diseases
    wait around,
  To hurry mortals home.




Great God! on what
    a slender thread
  Hang everlasting things!

Th' eternal states
    of all the dead
  Upon life's feeble strings.




Infinite joy
    or endless woe
  Attends on every breath,

And yet how
    unconcerned we go
  Upon the brink of death!




Waken, O Lord!
    our drowsy sense,
  To walk this dangerous road;

And if our souls
    be hurried hence,
  May they be found with God.