Pan [b'wy'n / bwi'n] golygu'r groes yn awr

Pan b'wy'n golygu'r groes yn awr
  Ar hon bu farw'r Brenin mawr,
Pryd hyn 'rwyf yn dibrisio'r byd,
  A'i holl ogoniant ef i gyd.

O'i ben, o'i ddwylaw,
    ac o'i draed
  Dylifai ei rinweddol waed:
P'le bu'r fath serch
    a chur yn nghyd,
  Neu ddrain a wnai'r
    fath goron ddrud!

[Gwelwch o'i ben, ei ddwylaw
     a'i draed
   Rhêd poen a chariad gyd a'i waed:
 B'le bu'r fath serch
     a phoen yn nghŷd,
   Neu ddrain a wnei'r
     fath goron ddrud?]

Ei waed, wrth farw ar y pren,
  Oedd dros ei gorff fel porffor len;
Am hyn 'rwy'n marw i'r holl fyd,
  Ac yntau'n marw i minau' gyd.

N'âd fi ymddiried, tra f'wyf byw,
  Ond yn marwolaeth Crist, fy Nuw:
Ei boenau ef a'i farwol glwy'
  Gânt fod yn ymffrost imi mwy.

Gwlad natur oll,
    pe bae'n fy rhan,
  Rhy fach yw'r anrheg,
    a rhy wan;
Cariad mor fawr sy'n gofyn im'
  Roi f'enaid, f'einioes,
    a phob dim.

When I view the cross now
  On this the great King died,
Then I count as worthless the world,
  And all its glories altogether.

From his head, from his hands,
    and from his feet
  Flow his virtuous blood:
Where were such affection
    and affliction together,
  Or thorns which made
    such a costly a crown?

[See from his head, his hands
     and his feet
   Run pain and love with his blood:
 Where was such affection
     and pain together,
   Or thorns that made
     such a costly crown?]

His blood, as he died on the tree,
  Was over his body like a purple sheet;
For this I am dead to all the world,
  And it in turn is all dead to me.

Do not let me trust, while I am alive,
  But in the death of Christ, my God:
His pains and his mortal wound
  May be a boast to me from now on.

The land of all nature,
    if it were my portion,
  Too small would be the gift,
    and too feeble;
Love so great asks me
  To give my soul, my lifespan,
    and everything.

When I survey the wondrous cross
  On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
  And pour contempt on all my pride.

See from His head, His hands,
    His feet,
  Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e'er such love
    and sorrow meet,
  Or thorns compose
      so rich a crown?

[See from His head, His hands,
     His feet,
   Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
 Did e'er such love
     and sorrow meet,
   Or thorns compose
       so rich a crown?]

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
  Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
  I sacrifice them to His blood.

His dying crimson, like a robe,
  Spreads o'er His body on the tree;
Then I am dead to all the globe,
  And all the globe is dead to me.

Were the whole realm
    of nature mine,
  That were a present
    far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
  Demands my soul, my life,
    my all.