O pwy a ddichon ganu'n ffraeth?

O pwy a ddichon ganu'n ffraeth
  I'r Bôd a wnaeth y bydoedd;
A seinio'i fawl rhyfeddol faith,
  Yn nifer iaith y nefoedd?

Myfi nid wyf ond pryfun gwael,
  Fy Arglwydd hael sy'n gwybod,
Er profi nodded
    pûr fy Nuw,
  Anhyfawl yw fy nhafod.

'Rwyf fi'n friwedig dan fy nghlwyf
  A gwannaf wyf o'r gweiniaid;
Ond nerthoedd cadarn cariad cu
  A ddeil i fynu f'enaid.

Nid allaf draethu'r clod yn rhwydd
  A haeddai f'Arglwydd tirion;
Ei fawl a gaiff lochesu'n glau
  Yn nirgel giliau'r galon.

'Rwyf fi dan fynych, fynych fai,
  Cloedig mewn clai, ydwyf,
Heb nerth y nef,
    bydd arnaf fêth
  Ymhob rhyw beth a wnelwyf.

O Dâd dod im'
    bob peth er lles,
  A'i feddu'n gynnes gennyf;
A chadw'r peth
    na'm gwnelo'n well,
  Ymhell, ymhell oddi wrthyf.

Tydi wyt Dduw mewn awr o bwys
  Sy'n gwrando dwys ochenaid;
A nerthodd mawr dy gariad cu
  A ddeil i fyny f'enaid.

Ti fuost im' yn Rhoddwr hael,
  Ynghyflwr gwael marwoldeb;
I'th foli di fy Arglwydd da,
  Rhy fyr yw trag'wyddoldeb.

[Ti fuost im' yn Noddwr hael
   Trwy gyflwr gwael marwoldeb;
 Moliannaf di, O Arglwydd da,
   Hyd eitha' tragwyddoldeb.]

Oh, who shall possibly sing fluently
  To the Being who made the worlds;
And sound his wonderful vast praise,
  In the number of the languages of heaven?

I am only a base worm,
  My generous Lord knows,
Despite experiencing the pure
    protection of my God,
  Slow to praise is my tongue.

I am bruised under my wound
  And the weakest am I of the weak;
But the firm strengths of dear love
  Shall hold up my soul.

I cannot expound the acclaim freely
  Which the tender Lord would deserve;
His praise shall get to take refuge securely
  In the secret recesses of the heart.

I am under many, many a fault,
  Locked in clay, I am,
Without the strength of heaven,
    There shall failure upon me
  In every kind of thing I do.

O Father may everything
    come to me for benefit,
  And my possession warmly of it;
And keep the thing
    that will not make me better,
  Far, far from me.

Thou art God in an hour of pressure
  Who art listening to groans;
And thy dear love greatly strengthened
  And holds up my soul.

Thou wast to me a generous Giver,
  In a poor condition of mortality;
To praise thee my good Lord,
  Too short is eternity.

[Thou wast to me a generous protector
   Through the base condition of mortality;
 I will praise thee, O good Lord,
   Unto the extremity of eternity.]