Dymunwn fod wrth borth y nef

Dymunwn fod wrth borth y nef,
  Yn gwrando cref gerddoriaeth
Holl waredigol deulu gras,
  Yn Salem, ddinas helaeth.

Nid oes yn llys
    y nefol Oen,
  Na gwae, na phoen, na gofid;
Ond pawb yn taro yr un tant,
  Yn y gogoniant hyfryd.

Mae yno apostolaidd dorf
  Yn Nghrist yn gorfoleddu;
Merthyron uchel iawn eu cān,
  A gadd trwy'r tān eu tynu.

Hiraethu'r wyf ar lawer tro,
  Wrth deithio'r fro ddaearol,
Am uno gyda'r saint i gyd,
  Ar fyr mewn gwynfyd nefol.

Gwyn fyd na bawn yn seinio mawl
  Yn fy nhragwyddol drigfa;
Yn un o'r rhai sy'n moli'r Oen,
  Mewn pur ddi boen orphwysfa.

I would wish to be at the gate of heaven,
  Listening to the strong music
Of the whole delivered family of grace,
  In Salem, a broad city.

There is not in the court
    of the heavenly Lamb,
  Either woe, or pain, or grief;
But everyone striking the same string,
  In the delightful glory.

There is there an apostolic throng
  In Christ rejoicing;
Martyrs with their very loud song,
  Who got pulled through the fire.

Longing I am on many occasions,
  While travelling the earthly vale,
About joining with all the saints,
  Shortly in heavely bliss.

How blessed were I sounding praise
  In my eternal dwelling;
As one of those who are praising the Lamb,
  In pure, painless rest.