Wele'r fath olwg hardd y sydd

Wele'r fath olwg, hardd y sydd
  I lygaid ffydd i'w chanfod;
Y dda'r a'r môr, ânt heibio'n glau,
  A'r hen wybrennau uchod.

O'r drydedd nef,
    preswylfa'n Duw,
  Lle dedwydd yw a sanctaidd;
Caersalem Newydd ddaw i lawr,
  Mewn harddwch mawr nefolaidd.

Angylion fydd, a'r diglair lu
  Yn gorfoleddu uchod;
Blant dynion, wele'ch Brenin da
  I'w sanctaidd drigfa'n dyfod.

At ddynion, Duw'r gogoniant glân,
  Daw ef a'i drigfan happus;
Dynion gwrthddrychau'i gariad gwiw,
  Ac ynte'u Duw cariadus.

Pob deigryn trist o'u llygaid ddaw
  Ei dyner law gaiff sychu;
A phoen a griddfan, gwae a gwyn,
  Ac angeu'i hun gaiff drengu.

Pa bryd fy Mhrynwr mwyn, pa bryd
  Daw'r awr dra hyfryd honno?
Olwynion amser trowch yn glau,
  Bod iddi'n frau brysuro.

See what a sight, which is beautiful
  To the eyes of faith to be perceived;
The earth and the sea, they pass quickly,
  And the old skies above.

From the third heaven,
    the residence of our God,
  A happy place it is and holy;
New Jerusalem shall come down,
  In great heavenly beauty.

Angels will be, with the shining host
  Rejoicing above;
Children of men, see your good King
  To his holy dwelling coming.

To men, the God of holy glory,
  Will bring his happy dwelling;
Men the objects of his worthy love,
  And he their loving God.

Every sad tear from the eyes which come
  His tender hand will get to dry;
And pain and groaning, woe and complain,
  And death itself will to perish.

When, my dear Redeemer, when
  Will come this hour so delightful?
Ye wheels of time turn quickly,
  May there be to it prompt hurrying.

Lo, what a glorious sight appears
  To our believing eyes!
The earth and sea are pass'd away,
  And the old rolling skies.

From the third heaven
    where God resides,
  That holy happy place,
The New Jerusalem comes down
  Adorn'd with shining grace.

Attending angels shout for joy,
  And the bright armies sing,
"Mortals, behold the sacred seat
  Of your descending King."

"The God of glory down to men
  Removes his blest abode,
Men the dear objects of his grace,
  And he the loving God."

"His own soft hand shall wipe the tears
  From every weeping eye,
And pains, and groans, and griefs, and fears,
  And death itself shall die."

How long, dear Saviour, O how long,
  Shall this bright hour delay!
Fly swifter round, ye wheels of time,
  And bring the welcome day.