Paham mae'ch gwedd Plant gweinion Duw?

Paham mae'ch gwedd,
    Plant gweinion Duw,
Yn gwisgo'r fath alarus liw?
  Pa amheuon sy'n gwanhau eich ffydd,
  A meithrin eich anobaith prudd?

Pa beth er bod eich beiau'n llu,
Amlach na sêr
    y nefoedd fry,
  Ac yn dyrchafu fynu o'r llawr
  I'r nefoedd fel mynyddoedd mawr?

Beth 'tai'ch euogrwydd, yr un pryd,
Yn chwyddo, o ran
    ei led a'i hyd,
  Tu hwnt i'r greadigaeth fawr,
  A'i sail mor bell ag uffern lawr?

Wele yma fôr yn llifo 'ma's
O fythol anffaeledig ras,
  A ffrydiau gwaed
      ein Prynwr Crist
  I foddi'n holl euogrwydd trist.

Cyfodi a soddi'r bryniau wnaeth,
'Does terfyn iddo ef na thraeth;
  Pe chwiliem ein pechodau mwy,
  Ni's gellir cael 'mo hynynt hwy.

Bendithiwn Dduw a'i ryfedd ras,
Sy'n claddu'n holl bechodau cas;
  A gwaed yr Oen
      sy'n chwyddo'n lli',
  Goruwch ein beiau
      a'n tybiau ni.

Why is your countenance,
    weak Children of God,
Wearing such a mournful look?
  What doubts are weakening your faith,
  And fostering you sad hopelessness?

What though your faults are as a throng,
More manifold than the stars
     of heaven above,
  And rising up from the ground
  To heaven like great mountains?

What if your guilt, at the same time, were
Swelling, in terms of
    its breadth and its length,
  Beyond the great creation,
  And its foundation as far as hell below?

See here is a sea flowing out
Of everlasting unfailing grace,
  And streams of the blood
      of our Redeemer Christ
  To drown all the sad guilt.

Raise and sink the hills it did,
There is no end to it or beach;
  If we should search our sins evermore,
  No more of them could be found.

Let us bless God and his wonderful grace,
That is burying all our detestable sins;
  And the blood of the Lamb
      is swelling as a flood,
  Superior to all our faults
      and our suppositions.

Why does your face,
    ye humble souls,
  Those mournful colours wear?
What doubts are these that try your faith,
  And nourish your despair?

What though your numerous sins exceed
  The stars that fill
      the skies,
And, aiming at the eternal throne,
  Like pointed mountains rise?

What though your mighty guilt beyond
  The wide creation
      swell,
And has its cursed foundations laid
  Low as the deeps of hell?

See, here an endless ocean flows
  Of never-failing grace;
Behold, a dying
    Saviour's veins
  The sacred flood increase!

It rises high, and drowns the hills;
  Has neither shore nor bound;
Now if we search to find our sins,
  Our sins can ne’er be found.

Awake, our hearts, adore the grace
  That buries all our faults;
And pardoning blood
    that swells above
  Our follies and
      our thoughts.