Pa nerthol ddyn neu gadarn dduw?

Pa nerthol ddyn, neu gadarn dduw,
  Sy'n dyfod mewn mawrhydi
Ar hyd ffordd Edom o'r porth cae
  Sy'n Bozra mae'n trafaelu?

Ei wisg ardderchog draetha'n siwr,
  Mai rhyw goncwerwr ydy':
"Myfi yw cadarn Frenin cred,
  Sy'n dwyn ymwared i chwi."

Pa ham, Ior cadarn, medd dy saint,
  Dy ddillad maent cyn goched?
A'th wisg lychwinwyd oll fel un
  Fu'n sathru'r grawnwin aeddfed.

"Sethrais y gwin-wryf fy hun,
  Help neb rhyw un ni chefais;
'Ngelynion dryllias hwynt i gyd,
  Ac yn fy llid y lleddais.

Gwaed Edom ddarfu lliwio ar lled,
  Fel scarled, fy holl wisgad;
A'u gwaed, sy'n nod
    o'm congcwest gwiw,
  Ddifwynodd lliw fy nillad.

Fel hyn dinystrir pobloedd sy'n
  Rhyfygu sathru'r saintiau;
I ddial eu cam, mae braich gan Dduw,
  A chlust a glyw'u hochneidiau."

gwelir:
    Rhan II - Lle trigodd Anghrist medd Duw Ner

What strong man, or firm god,
  Is coming in majesty
Along the Edom road from the gate of a field
  Who in Bozra is labouring?

His excellent clothing expounds surely,
  That some conqueror he is:
"I am a firm King, believe,
  Who is bringing deliverance to you."

Why, firm Lord, say thy saints,
  Are thy garments so red?
And thy clothing all sullied like one
  Who has been treading the mature grapes.

"I trod the wine-press myself,
  The help of no-one I got;
My enemies I smashed them all,
  And in my wrath I killed.

The blood of Edom did colour widely,
  Like scarlet, all my raiment;
And their blood, which is a mark
    of my worthy conquest,
  Spoiled the colour of my garments.

Thus peoples are to be destroyed who are
  Reckless to trample the saints;
To avenge their wrong, God has an arm,
  And an ear to hear their groans."

What mighty man, or mighty God,
  Comes travelling in state,
Along the Idumean road,
  Away from Bozrah's gate?

The glory of his robes proclaim
  'Tis some victorious king:
"'Tis I, the Just, th' Almighty One,
  That your salvation bring."

Why, mighty Lord, thy saints inquire,
  "Why thine apparel's red?
And all thy vesture stained like those
  Who in the wine-press tread?"

"I by myself have trod the press,
  And crushed my foes alone;
My wrath has struck the rebels dead,
  My fury stamped them down.

'Tis Edom's blood that dyes my robes
  With joyful scarlet stains;
The triumph that
    my raiment wears
  Sprung from their bleeding veins.

Thus shall the nations be destroyed
  That dare insult my saints;
I have an arm t'avenge their wrongs,
  An ear for their complaints."