O p'le mae'r manna perffaith gwir?

O! p'le mae'r manna perffaith gwir,
A'r dyfroedd tawel, sanctaidd, pur?
  Mae'm syched, Arglwydd, yn parhau:
'R wy'n methu tỳnu dŵr yn awr,
Fy anghrediniaeth sydd mor fawr;
  O! hollta'r graig; 'r wyf bron llesgau.

'R wyf oll yn friw, 'r wyf oll yn wan,
A neb ond Ti a'm deil i'r lan;
  Dy Hunan wyt yn fwy na'r byd:
Yr olwg leiaf ar Dy wedd
Sy'n drech nag angeu,
    trech na'r bedd;
  Dy Hunan wy'n ddymuno i gyd.

Na phall fy nghais, mae yn brydnawn,
A minnau'n llesg ac eiddil iawn,
  A'r afon fawr heb fyned trwy;
'R wy'n ofni ei llêd
    a'i dyfnder du,
A'i thònau maith cynddeiriog sy
  Yn magu ynof ofnau mwy.

Pa bryd câf gario'n
    lân y maes
Ar holl derfysgoedd angeu glâs,
  Heb mwy frawychu
      wrth ei wedd?
Dy gariad dyro o'r fath rym,
A wnelo wyneb angeu'n ddim;
  Dy unig gariad goncra'i gledd.

O where are the perfect, true manna,
And the quiet, sacred, pure waters?
  My thirst, Lord, is enduring:
I am failing to draw water now,
My unbelief is so great;
  O split the rock! I am almost fainting.

I am all bruised, I am all weak,
And none but thee shall hold me up;
  Thou thyself art greater than the world:
The least look upon thy own face
That is stronger than death,
    stronger than the grave;
  Is all that I request.

My request shall not fail, in is evening,
And I am weak and very feeble,
  And the great river not gone through;
I am fearing its breadth
    and its black depth,
And its vast waves which are furious
  Fostering greater fears within me.

When may I get to carry
    the field completely
Over all the tumults of utter death,
  Without being terrified any more
     at its appearance?
Thy love shall give such force
As makes the face of death as nothing;
  Thy love alone would conquer its sword.