Fy enaid hed tua'r nef o hyd,
Ac aed fy nghalon yno i gyd;
  A doed cystuddiau i mewn yn lli',
  Minau a gwynaf wrthyt ti:
'Does unrhyw ofid, unrhyw boen,
Na wasgodd ar yr addfwyn Oen;
Ac yn ei ofid Ef a'i gri,
  Mae holl esmwythder f'enaid i.

Mi wn mai 'meiau duon iawn,
Yw'r achos o'm cystuddiau'n llawn;
  Symud fy mai, fe gwymp y ffon
  O'th sanctaidd law y fynyd hon:
'D oes yn dy galon ond llesād,
Maddeuant, hedd, a gwir iachād;
  Cymer dy ffordd, can's credu'r wyf
  Mai dyna'r ffordd
      iachair fy nghlwyf.

             - - - - -

Fy enaid tua'r nefoedd 'hed,
Taena dy galon oll ar led,
  A doed cystuddiau'i mewn yn lli',
  Eu taflu wnaf i'th fynwes di;
'Does unrhyw ofid, unrhyw boen,
Na wasgodd ar yr addfwyn Oen,
  Ac yn ei ofid Ef a'i gri,
  Mae holl esmwythder f'enaid i.

Mi wn mae 'meiau duon drud,
Yw'r achos o'm cystuddiau 'i gyd,
  Symud fy mai, fe gwymp y ffon,
  O'th sanctaidd law y fynyd hon;
'Does yn dy galon ond llesād,
Maddeuant, hedd, a gwir iachad,
  Cymer dy ffordd, ynot yr wyf
  Yn credu 'nawr - iacha fy nghlwyf.

              - - - - -

Fy enaid tua'r nefoedd hźd,
A thaen dy galon yno ar led,
  A doed cystuddiau mewn yn lli',
  Mi a'u tafla' i dy fynwes di;
'Does unrhyw ofid, unrhyw boen,
Na wasgodd ar yr addfwyn Oen,
  Ac yn ei ofid ef a'i gri
  Mae holl esmwythder f'enaid i.

Pan del fy Nuw i ben a'i awr,
I roi cystuddiau i mhwyso i lawr,
  Rhaid i ergydion pur y ne'
  I gadw eu pryd a chadw eu lle;
Nis rho'wd i'm lladd,
    ond i gael byw,
Af innau trwyddynt yn fy Nuw:
  Tros byth caiff genyf
      gān ddigoll,
  Am iddo'm dwyn i trwyddynt oll.

gwelir:
  Mae'n perthyn i mi bob rhyw bla
  O tyr'd i ben ddedwyddaf ddydd

My soul, fly towards heaven always,
And let my heart go there altogether;
  And let afflictions come in like a flood,
  While I shall complain unto thee:
There is no fear, nor any pain,
That did not press upon the gentle Lamb;
  And in his fear and his cry,
  Is all the ease of my soul.

I know that my very black sins
Are the cause of my affliction in full;
  Remove my fault, the stick shall fall
  From thy sacred hand this minute:
In thy heart is nothing but benefit,
Forgiveness, peace and true healing;
  Take thy way, since believing I am
  That that is the way
      my wound will be healed.

                 - - - - -

My soul, towards heaven fly,
Spread all thy heart wide,
  And come afflictions in as a flood,
  Throw them I shall do into thy bosom;
There is no kind of grief, no kind of pain,
That did not press on the gentle Lamb,
  And in His grief and his cry,
  Is all the relief of my soul.

I know that my costly, black sins,
Are the cause of all my afflictions,
  My fault remove, the stick shall fall,
  From thy holy hand that minute;
There is in thy heart only benefit,
Forgiveness, peace, and true healing,
  Take thy way, in thee I am
  Believing now - heal my disease!

                 - - - - -

My soul, towards heaven fly,
And spread thy heart there wide,
  And come afflictions in as a flood,
  I shall throw them into thy bosom;
There is no kind of grief, no kind of pain,
That did not press on the gentle Lamb,
  And in His grief and his cry,
  Is all the relief of my soul.

When my god brings to an end his hour,
To give afflictions to weigh me down,
  The pure strokes of heaven must
  Keep their time and keep their place;
They were not given to kill me,
    but to get life,
I shall go through them in my God:
  For ever he shall get from me
      an unfailing song,
  For bringing me through them all.