Yr Aberth a laddwyd drwy/trwy frad

Yr aberth a
    laddwyd drwy frâd
  Ar gopa Calfaria brydnawn,
Wnaeth gymod,
    boddlonodd y Tad;
  A Hwn a osododd yn Iawn.
Trag'wyddol annhraethol ei werth,
  Ei urddas yw'r Duwdod ei hun;
Nid gormod cael
    eithaf pob nerth
  I'w ganmawl mewn caniad gyttun.

Sancteiddier holl
    foroedd y byd,
  Eu cynhwrf, a'u rhüad didawl;
Gan daflu i'w glanau o hyd,
  O'u heigion, wir dònau o fawl;
I ddafnau eu dyfroedd ar frys
  Rhoer genau,
    synwyrau, a dawn,
I ddatgan cerdd beraidd ddilys
  Am urddas anfeidrol yr Iawn.

O deffro, fy enaid, mae'n bryd,
  Ymnertha, anghofia dy boen;
Doed nerthoedd yr
    eglwys trwy'r byd
  Ar egni i foli yr Oen:
Mae hyn yn rhy fychan i'r gwaith,
  Rhy fychan o allu a dawn;
Rhy fychan yw geiriau pob iaith
  I draethu teilyngdod yr Iawn.

Boed lluoedd y bydoedd i gyd
  Yn glychau o aur yn eu maint,
I weini 'ngŵyl
    cymmod y byd
  Wrth odreu Offeiriad y saint:
A chanant â'u nerthoedd yn llawn,
  Gwnaed cymmod trag'wyddol â Duw;
Er marw i wneuthur yr Iawn,
  Mae'n Haaron ni eto yn fyw.

Cydganed holl nerthoedd pob byd,
  I roddi i'r Prynwr ei hawl,
Nes llanwo eu hadsain o hyd
  Y gwagle trag'wyddol â mawl:
A'r gwagle 'n un môr o'u mawl fo,
  A'i donau chwyddedig yn fyw
Ad-luchio i
    olchi'n eu tro,
  Holl lanau
      cre'digaeth ein Duw.

Bechadur, ai tewi'r wyt ti
  Am sylfaen dy fywyd dy hun?
A'r engyl, am Iawn drosom ni,
  Yn canu'n egniol bob un!
Er cymaint mae'r engyl difai
  Yn synu at angau mor ddrud,
Nid ydyw eu syndod fawr lai
  At ddyn sydd yn aros yn fud.

O deffro, i ganmawl yr Oen;
  Pwy all fod mewn dyled mor fawr?
A chân nes anghofio dy boen;
  Nac oeda, ond dechreu yn awr.
Mae moliant llu'r
    nef yn rhy wan
  I ateb i gariad Duw Iôr;
Dod gymhorth, a chana dy ran,
  Chwanega at allu y côr.

Wrth ganu, dywedyd maent hwy,
  'Mae Iesu'n rhyfeddod i ni;'
Ond dyn sydd mewn modd i dd'weyd mwy,
  'Mae Iesu yn fywyd i mi:'
Hwy synant at Iesu ar bren,
  Ond drosot ti
      deuai i'r gwawd;
Hwy allant dd'weyd, 'Dyma ein Pen!'
  Ond gelli di dd'wedyd, 'Fy Mrawd!'

gwelir: O gariad O gariad mor rad

The sacrifice which
    was slain through betrayal
  On the summit of Calvary one afternoon,
Wrought reconciliation,
    satisfied the Father;
  And Him who gave him as a Ransom.
Eternally inexpressible his worth,
  His dignity is the Trinity itself;
It is not too much to get
    the utmost of every strength
  To praise him in song in agreement.

To be sanctified are all
    the seas of the world,
  Their tumult, and their unceasing roar;
While flinging to their shores always,
  From their ocean, true waves of praise;
To drops their waters hurriedly
  To be given are a mouth,
    senses, and talent,
To express the sweet, unfailing poetry
  About the infinite dignity of the Ransom.

O awake, my soul, it is time,
  Take strength, forget thy pain;
May the strengths of the church
    throughout the world be
  striving to praise the Lamb:
This is too small for the work,
  To small of ability and talent;
To small are the words of every language
  To expound the worthiness of the Ransom.

Let all the hosts of the worlds be
  Circles of gold in their greatness,
To serve in the festival of
    the reconciliation of the world
  On the hem of the Priest of the saints:
And they will sing with their powers full,
  To make eternal reconciliation with God;
Despite dying to make the Ransom,
  Our Aaron is yet alive.

Let all the powers of every world chorus,
  To give to the Redeemer his right,
Until their echo always fill
  The eternal space with praise:
And the space be one sea of his praise,
  And the swollen waves alive
Flinging back and forth to
    wash in their turn,
  All the shores
      of the creation of our God.

Sinner, art thou holding thy silence
  About the foundation of thy own life?
And the angels, about a Ransom for us,
  Singing vigorously every one!
Despite how great are the faultless angels
  Astonished at a death so costly,
Their great surprise is not much less
  At a man who stays mute.

O awake, to praise the Lamb;
  Who can be in such a great debt?
And sing until forgetting thy pain;
  Do not delay, but begin now.
The praise of the host of
    heaven is too weak
  To answer the love of the Lord God;
Come to help, and sing thy part,
  Augment the ability of the choir.

While singing, saying are they,
  'That Jesus is a wonder to us;'
But man is in a means to say more,
  'That Jesus is life to me:'
They wonder at Jesus on a tree,
  But for thee he would come
      to the mockery;
They can say, 'Behold our Head!'
  But thou canst say, 'My Brother!'

The Sacrifice
    wickedly slain
  On Calvary one afternoon,
Did God for
    atonement ordain,
  And He is well pleased in the Son:
His merit no language can tell,
  The title of Godhead is His;
No praises can
    ever excel
  The worth of a Saviour like this.

The earth is so
    little, beside
  Creation's unmeasurèd reach -
A small speck of dust undescried,
  A drop of the sea on the beach:
But Love wrought its victory here,
  A conquest of
      glory supreme;
And Calvary's accent is clear
  Through heaven in each rapturous theme.

Awake! it is time, oh! my soul,
  Be strong to forget every pain;
The Church of all
    nations extol,
  The praise of the Lamb that was slain:
The work is so vast in its plan,
  Too few are the words of the earth,
Too feeble the talents of man,
  To tell the Atonement's full worth.

The Feast of Atonement is nigh,
  The world is to share in the feast -
Let all the bright
    stars of the sky
  Be bells of fine gold for the Priest!
His praise let all powers make known -
  'He reconciled us unto God!
The Aaron who died to atone,
  He liveth, with glory endowed.'

Let all worlds in concert unite
  To give the Redeemer His due,
Until their rejoicing delight
  Th'eternal dominions of blue:
All space be an ocean of praise,
  And waves of harmonious refrain
Surge back over
    infinite ways
  To the shores of
      creation again!

Oh! sinner, hast thou not a voice
  For Him who is Refuge alone!
The angels adoring rejoice
  That He for us all did atone:
Their wonder they ever confess,
  To think of His death in our room:
But is their astonishment less,
  That man should keep silent and dumb?

Awake! to the Lamb be thy song!
  Whose debt can be ever so great?
In singing His praises grow strong;
  Begin, - 'tis already so late!
The song of the
    white-wingèd quire
  Is weak for that triumph of love:
Stand thou in thy part, and aspire
  To add to the rapture above.

The angels in singing proclaim,
  'Christ Jesus! our Wonder is He:'
But man has much more in the Name -
  'Christ Jesus is Life unto me!'
They wonder to think of Him dead -
  For thee did He
     journey that way:
The angels can call Him their Head -
  'My Brother' canst thou to Him say?