[Clod clod / Y clod] (I'r Oen a laddwyd cyn fy mod)

      Clod, clod
I'r Oen a laddwyd
        cyn fy mod;
Y parch a'r mawl i'w enw boed,
  Am iddo erioed, o'i gariad rhad,
    Roi'i serch ar wael golledig ddyn!
  Mawr iawn yw rhin
        ei werthfawr waed!

      Daw dydd
I'r carcharorion fyn'd yn rhydd,
O'u holl gadwynau tynion sydd;
  Mor felys fydd eu caniad hwy!
    Am ddïoddefaint addfwyn Oen,
  Bydd hyfryd sôn
      heb ddiwedd mwy.

      Daw, daw
Yr hyfryd fore, mae gerllaw,
Bydd pawb a'i delyn yn ei law,
  Heb ofn na braw,
          yn nghwmni'r Oen,
    Yn canu i dragwyddoldeb maith,
  Ar ben y daith,
      heb friw na phoen.

               - - - - -

      Clod, clod,
I'r Oen a laddwyd
        cyn fy mod,
Y parch a'r mawl i'w enw boed,
  Am iddo erioed, o'i gariad rhad,
    Roi'i serch ar wael syrthiedig ddyn:
  Mawr iawn yw rhin
          ei ddwyfol waed.

      Ei glod
Sydd heb un terfyn iddo'n bod,
O aed yn mlaen fwy nag erioed,
  O gwmpas rhod y ddaear fawr,
    Nes elo swn efengyl bur
  I dori'n glir fyrddiynau i lawr.

               - - - - -

      Y clod,
I'r Oen a laddwyd
        cyn fy mod,
Y parch a'r mawredd iddo boed,
  Am iddo erioed, o'i gariad rhad,
    Roi'i serch ar wael golledig ddyn!
  Mawr iawn yw rhîn
        ei werthfawr waed.

     Daeth trwy,
Yr Iesu glân a'i farwol glwy',
Fendithion fyrdd;
        daw etto fwy!
  Mae ynddo faith ddiderfyn 'stor:
    Ni gawsom rai defnynau'i lawr,
  Beth am yr awr cawn
         fyn'd i'r môr!            [SR]

gwelir:
  Daeth trwy (Yr Iesu glân a'i farwol glwy')
  Daw dydd (I'r carcharorion fyn'd yn rhydd)
  Ei glod (Sydd heb un terfyn iddo'n bod)

      Praise, praise
To the Lamb who was killed
        before I existed;
The honour and the acclaim be to his name,
  That he ever, of his free love,
    Set his affection on base, lost man!
  Very great is the merit
          of his precious blood!

        The day comes
For the prisoners to go free,
From all their chains which are tight;
  How sweet will be their song!
    About the suffering of the gentle Lamb,
  Will be the lovely sound
      without end any more.

        It comes, it comes
The lovely morning, it is at hand,
Everyone will have his harp in his hand,
  Without fear or alarm,
      in the company of the Lamb,
    Singing for a long eternity,
  At the end of the journey,
      without wound or pain.

                 - - - - -

      Praise, praise,
To the Lamb who was killed
        before I existed;
The honour and the acclaim be to his name,
  That he ever, of his free love,
    Set his affection on base, fallen man:
  Very great is the merit
          of his divine blood.

      His praise
Which is without any limit to it,
O may it go forward more than ever,
  Around the circuit of the great earth,
    Until the sound of the pure gospel goes
  To break clearly myriads down.

                 - - - - -

      The praise,
To the lamb who was killed
        before I existed,
The honour and the majesty be to him,
  That he ever, of his free love,
    Set his affection on base, lost man!
  Very great is the merit
          of his precious blood.

     A myriad blessings,
Came through the holy Jesus,
And his mortal wound;
        still more shall come!
  In him is a vast unending store:
    We got some drops down,
  A little for the hour we shall get
          to go to the sea!