Ai Iesu [Cyfaill / mawr Ffrynd] dynol-ryw?

Ai Iesu,
    Cyfaill dynol-ryw,
A welaf fry â'i gnawd yn friw,
  A'i waed yn lliwio'r lle?
Fel gŵr di bris yn rhwym ar bren,
A'r goron bigog ar ei ben?
  Ie, f'enaid, dacw 'fe!

Ai'm hanwyl Briod wela'i draw,
A hoelion llymion drwy bob llaw,
  A'u curo'n drwm i dre',
Mewn ing a phoen
    dan ŵg ei Dad,
Ac yno'n marw yn ei waed?
  Ie, f'enaid, dacw 'fe!

Ai ef fu'n maddeu'n rhad i'w gâs,
A'i waed yn llif
    o'i fron i maes,
  Nes agor drws y ne'?
Dan bwys ei gur
      yn gŵro'i ben,
Gan dd'weyd, "Gorphenwyd," ar y pren?
  Ie, f'enaid, dacw 'fe!

                - - - - -
            1,2,3,(4);  1,2,4.

Ai Iesu mawr,
    Ffrynd dynol-ryw,
Wy'n weled fry â'i gnawd yn friw,
  A'i waed yn lliwio'r lle;
Fel gŵr di-brîs yn rhwym ar bren,
A'r gwaed yn dorthau ar Ei ben?
  Ië, f'enaid, dyma 'Fe.

Ai'm hanwyl Brïod welaf draw,
A hoelion llymion trwy bob llaw,
  A'u pwyo'n drwm i dre',
A bar ddur trwy'i dirion draed,
Ac Yntau'n marw yn Ei waed?
  Ië, f'enaid, dyma 'Fe.

Ai Ef fu'n maddeu idd Ei gâs,
A'i waed yn llif o'i glwyfau i maes,
  Nes agor drws y ne',
Rho'i 'i ben tua'r llawr
    gan boenau llym,
Yn wirion, deg, heb yngan dim?
  Ië, f'enaid, dyma 'Fe.

Ffydd, dacw'r man a dacw'r pren,
Yr hoeliwyd arno D'wysog nen
  Yn llariaidd yn fy lle;
Y ddraig ysigwyd dan Dduw-ddyn,
Can's clwyfwyd dau, gorchfygodd Un -
  A'r Iesu oedd Efe.

             - - - - -

Ai Iesu, Cyfaill dynol-ryw,
A welir fry a'i gnawd yn friw,
  A'i waed yn lliwio'r lle;
Fel gŵr di-bris yn rhwym ar bren,
A'r goron boenus ar ei ben?
  Ie, f'enaid, dyma fe.

Dros f'enaid i bu'r addfwyn Oen
Fel hyn, yn dioddef dirfawr boen,
  I'm gwneud yn rhydd yn wir;
'R oedd yn ei fryd ŵynebu'r gwaith
O eithaf tragwyddoldeb maith -
  O! f'enaid, cofio'i gur.     [WW]

gwelir:
  O boed fy nghalon oll ar dân
  Yn Eden cofiaf hynny byth

Is it Jesus,
    the Friend of human-kind,
I see above with his flesh bruised,
 And his blood colouring the place?
Like a man despised bound on a tree,
And the thorny crown on his head?
  Yes, my soul, there he is!

Is it my dear Spouse I see yonder,
With sharp nails through each hand,
  And they beaten heavily home,
In anguish and pain
    under the frown of his Father,
And then dying in his blood?
  Yes, my soul, there he is!

It is he who forgave freely his enemy,
With his blood streaming
    out from his breast,
  Until the door of heaven opens?
Under the weight of his wounding
      bowing his head,
Saying, "It is finished," on the tree?
  Yes, my soul, there he is!

                  - - - - -
 

Is it great Jesus,
    the Friend of human-kind,
Whom I see above with his flesh bruised,
  And his blood colouring the place;
Like a man despised bound on a tree,
And the blood as clots on His head?
  Yes, my soul, here He is.

Is is my dear Spouse I see yonder,
With sharp nails through each hand,
  And they bashed heavily home,
And a steel bar through his gentle feet,
And he dying in His blood?
  Yes, my soul, here He is.

It is He who forgave those who hate him,
With his blood a stream out of his wounds,
  Until the door of heaven opens,
Putting his head towards the ground
    under sharp pains,
Innocently, fair, without uttering anything?
  Yes, my soul, here He is.

Faith, behold the spot and behold the tree,
The Prince of heaven was crucified
  Meekly in my place;
The dragon was crushed by God-man,
Since two were wounded, One overcame -
  And Jesus was He.

                 - - - - -

Is it Jesus, the Friend of human-kind,
That is to be seen with his flesh bruised,
  And his blood colouring the place;
Like a man of no value bound on a tree,
With the painful crown on his head?
  Yes, my soul, here he is.

For my soul the gentle Lamb was
Thus, suffering enormous pain,
  To make me truly free;
He did intend to face the work
From the extremity of a vast eternity -
  O my soul, remember his wounding!

Is this my Jesus,
    this my God,
Whose body, all o'er stain'd with blood,
  Hangs on th'accursed tree?
Who bows his head, oppress'd with pain;
But 'midst it all doth not complain?
  Yes, O my soul, 'tis he!

Is this my Saviour, this my Lord,
Whose feet and hands with nails are bor'd,
  And fasten'd to the tree;
Whose sacred head
    with thorns is crown'd,
Whose pierced side receives the wound?
  Yes, O my soul, 'tis he!

Is this my bleeding sacrifice,
Who bows his head,
    and calmly dies,
  High lifted on the tree;
Unknown by Gentiles,
    scoff'd by Jews,
Whom almost all mankind refuse?
  Yes, O my soul, 'tis he!

                - - - - -
 

Is this my Jesus,
    this my God,
Whose body, all o'er stain'd with blood,
  Hangs on th'accursed tree?
Who bows his head, oppress'd with pain;
But 'midst it all doth not complain?
  Yes, O my soul, 'tis he!

Is this my Saviour, this my Lord,
Whose feet and hands with nails are bor'd,
  And fasten'd to the tree;
Whose sacred head with thorns is crown'd,
Whose pierced side receives the wound?
  Yes, O my soul, 'tis he!

Is this my bleeding sacrifice,
Who bows his head, and calmly dies,
  High lifted on the tree;
Unknown by Gentiles,
    scoff'd by Jews,
Whom almost all mankind refuse?
  Yes, O my soul, 'tis he!

And shall my soul again forget
His love so free, immensely great?
  Oh! - never let it be!
But let me always see the Lamb,
And truly praise his gracious name
  To all eternity!

                - - - - -

Is this my Jesus, this my God,
Whose body, all o'er stain'd with blood,
  Hangs on th'accursed tree?
Who bows his head, oppress'd with pain;
But 'midst it all doth not complain?
  Yes, O my soul, 'tis he!