Mae'r gwaed a redodd ar y groes

Mae'r gwaed a redodd ar y groes
  O oes i oes i'w gofio;
Rhy fyr yw tragwyddoldeb llawn
  I ddweud yn iawn amdano.

Prif destun holl ganiadau'r nef
  Yw "Iddo ef" a'i haeddiant;
A dyna sain telynau glân
  Ar uchaf gân gogoniant.

Mae hynod rinwedd gwaed yr Oen
  A'i boen wrth achub enaid
Yn seinio'n uwch ar dannau'r nef
  Na hyfryd lef seraffiaid.

'Mhen oesoedd
    rif y tywod mân
  Ni fydd y gân ond dechrau;
Rhyw newydd wyrth o'i angau drud
  A ddaw o hyd i'r golau.

Nid yw caniadau'r nef yn awr
  Ond megis gwawr yn torri,
Yr hon, fel amnaid fechan iawn
  Arddengys lawn oleuni.

Ond pan ddel
    torf y cystudd mawr
  O'r anial dirfawr yno,
Dylenwir croth pob dwyfol dant
  Ag uwch gogoniant iddo.

Er gwyched sain
    pob dosbarth glân
  Ar ddirfawr gân ddiddarfod,
Ni bydd eu dawn ond isel fri
  Am waed i olchi pechod!

Ni thraethir maint
    anfeidrol werth
  Ei aberth yn dragywydd:
Er treulio myrdd o oesoedd glân
  Ni fydd y gân ond newydd.

The blood that ran on the cross is
  From age to age to be remembered;
Too short is full eternity
  To tell of it truly.

The chief theme of all the songs of heaven
  Is "Unto him," and his merit;
And there is a sound of holy harps
  On the highest song of glory.

The remarkable virtue of the blood of the Lamb
  And his pain while saving a soul
Sounds louder on the strings of heaven
  Than the lovely cry of the seraphim.

At the end of ages
    as numerous as the fine sand
  The song will have only begun;
Some new miracle of his precious death
  Will come at length to light.

The songs of heaven are now not
  But like the dawn breaking,
This, like a very small sign
  That evinces full light.

But when the multitude
    of the great tribulation come
  From the immense desert there,
The viol of every divine string will be filled
  With higher glory to him.

Despite the magnificence of the sound
    of every holy class
  On the immense unfading song,
Their talent will be but of lowly esteem
  For the blood to wash sin!

Not to be expounded is the extent
    of the immeasurable worth
  Of his sacrifice eternally:
Despite the spending of a myriad of holy ages
  The song will be but new.

From age to age the memory
  Of Jesu's blood grows fonder;
Too short eternity will be
  To tell of all its wonder.

The chiefest theme of heavenly song
  Is Jesu's dying glory;
In highest hymn each harp is strong
  To tell again the story.

The virtue of His sufferings,
  His grief in our restoring,
Sound louder on celestial strings
  Than seraphim adoring.







The song will but begin to rise
  When ages vast are over;
For ever shall His sacrifice
  New miracles discover.

When these shall reach
    the sacred hill,
  The sons of tribulation;
Then every string Divine shall thrill
  With louder exultation.

The music shall
    for ever swell,
  Host unto host replying;
But oh! the song will never tell
  The worth of Jesus dying.