1,2,(3,4),5.
Caed ffynnon ar y bryn,
  A ylch yn wyn a glân,
Oddi wrth bechodau mwya'n bod,
  Rhifedi'r tywod mân.

Mae rhinwedd yn y gwaed,
  I olchi beiau mwy
Nas dichon neb o gôr y nef
  Byth byth eu rhifo hwy.

Mi welaf dyrfa lon,
  A'u gynau'n ganaid wyn;
Fe'u golchwyd oll yn ngwaed yr Oen
  Fu farw ar y bryn.

O! na bawn gyda hwy
  Yn chwyddo'r hyfryd gân;
O fawl dilyth i'r Iesu mwy,
  Mewn gwir hosana lân.

Does diwedd fyth na thrai
  Ar ffrwythau angeu loes;
Fe genir a thelynau aur
  Am rinwedd gwaed y groes.

            - - - - -
1,(2a),3,4,5;  1,3,4,(2b),5.
Mae ffynon ar y bryn
  A ylch yn berffaith lân,
Bechodau mawr, ffieidia erioed,
  O rîf y tywod mân.

Mae ynddi rinwedd mawr,
  Hi olcha feiau mwy
Nas gall angylion draethu byth,
  Er maint eu doniau hwy.

[Mae rhinwedd yn dy wa'd
   I faddeu beiau mwy,
 Nas cyfrif engyl nefol wlad,
   A'u helaeth ddoniau hwy.]

Nid oes un amser drai
  Ar lîf y ffynon hon;
Mae'n ddigon llawn i lifo dros
  Holl gynau'r byd o'r bron.

Hi gàna'r Negro du,
  Hi gàna'r Indiad draw;
Hi ylch yr aflan oes y sy,
  Hi ylch yr oes a ddaw.

Am hynny gwnaf fy nyth,
 Y'mlith rhai dua'u rhyw;
Mi dafla fy euogrwydd du
  Yn hollol i fy Nuw.

            - - - - -

Caed ffynon ar y bryn,
  A ylch yn wỳn a glân
Oddiwrth bechodau mwya'n bod,
  Rhifedi'r tywod mân.

'Does diwedd fyth na thrai
  Ar gariad angeu loes;
Uwch pris o'r
    gwerthfawrocaf gaed
  Yw haeddiant gwaed y groes.

Fe gàna'r Negro du,
  Fe gàna'r Indiad draw;
Fe faddeu i'r aflan oes y sy,
  Fe faddeu i'r oes a ddaw.

gwelir: Ti Iesu Frenin nef

 
There is a fountain on the hill,
  Which washes white and clean,
From sins which are more
  Numerous than the fine sand.

There is virtue in the blood,
  To wash more sins
Than the choir of heaven could
  Ever, ever number.

I see a joyful throng,
  With their gowns brilliant white;
They were all washed in blood of the Lamb
  Who died on the hill.

O that I might be with them
  Swelling the delightful song;
Of endless praise to the greater Jesus,
  In true, pure hosanna.

There is no end ever, nor ebb
  To the fruits of the pang of death;
Forever will be sung with harps of gold
  The virtue of the blood of the cross.

                - - - - -
 
There is a fount on the hill
  Which washes perfectly clean,
Great sins, most detestable ever,
  Numbered as the fine sand.

In it is great virtue,
  It washes more faults
Than angels can ever expound,
  Despite the extent of their talents.

[There is virtue in thy blood
   To forgive more faults,
 Than angels of a heavenly land can count,
   With their abundant talents.]

There is no time of ebbing
  On the flow of this fount;
It is sufficiently full to flow over
  All the corners of the world completely.

It bleaches the black Negro,
  It bleaches the distant Indian;
It washes the unclean age that is,
  It will wash the age to come.

Therefore I will make my nest,
  Amongst those of the blackest sort;
I will throw my black guilt
  Wholly to my God.

                - - - - -

There is a fount on the hill,
  Which washes white and clean
From the greatest sins there are,
  Numbered as the fine sand,

There is no ending ever nor ebbing
  To the love of the throes of death;
Above the price of the
    most precious thing ever got
  Is the merit of the blood of the cross.

It bleaches the black Negro,
  It bleaches yonder Indian;
It forgives unclean of the age that is,
  It forgives for the age to come.