Mor hyfryd Arglwydd yw dy fyd

Mor hyfryd, Arglwydd, yw Dy fyd!
A'th roddion, gwerthfawr ŷnt i gyd:
  Ond sôn y maent am Wynfa bell,
  Ac ernes ŷnt o bethau gwell.

Ein ffydd, wrth ddringo'r bryniau hyn,
Wêl fryniau uwch, tu draw i'r Glyn:
  Ar làn afonydd
      daw i'n clyw
  Furmuron tyner afon Duw.

Y blodau peraidd yn eu swyn,
A'r seiniau melus ar bob llwyn, -
  Prophwydo maent
      am harddach byd,
  A phawb yn canmol Duw yng nghyd.

Daw'r gwanwyn â "newyddion da";
"Llawenydd mawr" a ddŵg yr ha'; -
  Beth fydd y gwanwyn yn y wlad,
  Oleuir byth gan wenau'n Tad!

Drwy'r rhoddion at y Rhoddwr awn;
Po nesaf ato, mwyaf gawn:
  Y rhoddion goreu, nid ŷnt hwy
  Ond ernes eto o gariad mwy.

How delightful, Lord, is thy world!
And thy gifts, they are all precious:
  But they tell of a distant Blessedness,
  And an earnest they are of better things.

Our faith, while climbing these hills,
Sees higher hills, beyond the Vale:
  On the banks of rivers
      there comes to our hearing
  The tender murmurs of the river of God.

The sweet flowers in their charm,
And the sweet sounds on every bush, -
  Prophesying they are about
      a more beautiful world,
  And everyone praising God together.

The spring will bring "good news";
"Great joy" the summer will bring; -
  What the spring will be in the land,
  Lightened forever by the Father's smiles!

Through the gifts to the Giver let us go;
The nearer to him, the more we shall get:
  The best gifts, they are nothing
  But an earnest yet of greater love.

What sweetness on thine earth doth dwell!
  How precious, Lord, these gifts of thine!
Yet sweeter messages they tell,
  These earnests of delights divine.

What, glory out of glory breaks,
  More than the gift itself is given;
Each gift a glorious
    promise makes;
  Thine earth doth prophesy of heaven.

These odours blest, these gracious flowers,
  These sweet sounds that around us rise,
Give tidings of
    the heavenly bowers,
  Prelude th'angelic harmonies.

These vernal hours what news they bring!
  What tidings these bright summers tell!
They fore-announce the eternal spring, -
  Foreshow the light ineffable.

Oh, mercies kindly incomplete!
  Dear joys our hearts that may not fill!
Strange grace! that in thy gifts most sweet
  We read of gifts diviner still.