Yn curo curo O pwy yw?

  Yn curo, curo, O! pwy yw?
  Disgwyl, disgwyl, enaid, clyw:
Mae yn hardd, - erioed ni welwyd
  Ei gyffelyb ar y llawr;
Mae ei enw yn Rhyfeddol;
  Cyfod, agor iddo'n awr.

  Yn curo, curo, mae'n parhau,
  Disgwyl, disgwyl, eto mae;
Anhawdd, anhawdd ydyw agor,
  Afrwydd ydyw'r drws a thỳn,
Gan yr eiddew a'i gafaelion,
  Gan y llaid,
      y dail, a'r chwyn.

  Yn curo, curo, - hardd yw ef,
  Disgwyl, disgwyl, -
      tegwch nef;
Dyna'n curo'r llaw
    a hoeliwyd;
  Dan y goron ar ei ben,
Dyna ddwyfol dyner lygad
  'Rhwn fy farw ar y pren.

  Yn curo, curo, - Geidwad mawr,
  Disgwyl, disgwyl, mae yn awr;
Cyfod, agor, fe wna'th galon
  Iddo'n babell lan, ddilyth;
Cei e'n Dad,
    yn Frawd, yn Briod,
  Cei ei nef
      yn gartref byth.

  Knocking, knocking, O who is it?
  Waiting, waiting, soul, hear thou!
He is beautiful, - never was seen
  His like on earth below;
His name is Wonderful;
  Arise, open to him now!

  Knocking, knocking, he is persisting,
  Waiting, waiting, still he is;
Difficult, difficult is opening,
  Stiff is the door and tight,
Because of the ivy and its grip,
  Because of the mud,
    the leaves and the weeds.

  Knocking, knocking, - beautiful is he,
  Waiting, waiting, -
      the fairness of heaven;
There knocking is the hand
    that was crucified;
  Under the crown on his head,
There are the divine, tender eye
  Of him who died on the tree.

  Knocking, knocking, - Great Saviour,
  Waiting, waiting, he is now;
Arise, open, he will make thy heart
  A holy, sincere tent for him;
Thou shalt have him as Father,
    as Brother, as Spouse,
  Thou shalt have his heaven
      as a home forever.

  Knocking, knocking, who is there?
  Waiting, waiting, O how fair!
'Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly,
  Never such was seen before;
Ah! my soul, for such a wonder
  Wilt thou not undo the door?
  Wilt thou not undo the door?

  Knocking, knocking, still He's there,
  Waiting, waiting, wondrous fair;
But the door is hard to open,
  For the weeds and ivy vine
With their dark and clinging tendrils
  Ever round the hinges twine,
  Ever round the hinges twine.

  Knocking, knocking what! still there?
  Waiting, waiting, grand and fair;
Yea, the wounded hand still knocketh,
  And beneath the thorn-wreath'd hair
Beam the patient eyes, so tender,
  Of thy Savior waiting there;
  Wilt thou keep him waiting there?