Chwi ddiolchgar bobl dewch

Chwi, ddiolchgar bobl, dewch,
Mewn sain moliant llawenhewch;
  Caed y cnwd mewn addas hin
  Cyn ystormydd gaeaf blin;
Duw a drefnodd yn ddi-baid
I gyflenwi eich holl raid:
  Dewch, O! dewch i'w deml lân,
  Cyd-ddyrchefwch nefol gân.

Maes i godi ffrwyth i Dduw,
Clod a mawl a diolch gwiw,
  Ydyw'r ddaear - ynddi mae
  Ŷd ac efrau wedi'u hau;
Pan aeddfedo'r had ar awr
Ddwys yr atgyfodiad mawr,
  Arglwydd bywyd, gad i ni
  Fod yn sanctaidd gnwd i ti.

Gwyddom oll y daw y dydd
Y cymerir plant y Ffydd
  Adref, ac y teflir draw
  Bob aflendid, trais a braw:
Pryd y bwria'r angel-lu
Efrau'r maes i uffern du;
  Ond y ffrwythlon ŷd, yr Iôr
  Ddwg i mewn i'w nefol stôr.

Clyw, O! Dduw trugaredd, clyw
Fawl dy weision, gweddus yw;
  Casgler, Iôr, dy saint ynghyd,
  Rhag y diafol, cnawd a byd;
Boed i bawb yn nheml nef
Dy foliannu ag un llef;
  Boed i fyrdd o engyl glân
  Ganu'n awr dy ddiolch-gân.

Ye, thankful people, come,
In a sound of praise rejoice;
  A crop is got in suitable weather
  Before the grievous storms of winter;
God has ordained unceasingly
To fulfil all your need:
  Come, O come ye to his holy temple,
  Raise together a heavenly song.

A field to raise fruit for God,
Acclaim and praise and worthy thanks,
  Is the earth - in it corn
  And tares have been sown;
When the seed matures in the intense
Hour of the resurrection,
  Lord of life, let us
  Be a sacred crop for thee.

We all know the day shall come
When the children of faith shall be taken
  Home, and thrown away shall be
  All uncleanness, violence and terror:
Then the angel host shall cast
The tares of the field into black hell;
  But the fruitful corn, the Lord
  Shall take in to his heavenly store.

Hear, O merciful God, hear
The praise of thy servants, worthy it is;
  Gather, Master, thy saints together,
  From the devil, flesh and world;
Let all in the temple of heaven be
Praising thee with one voice;
  Let a myriad of holy angels
  Sing now thy thanksgiving-song.

Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of harvest-home!
  All is safely gathered in,
  Ere the winter storms begin:
God our Maker doth provide
For our wants to be supplied;
  Come to God’s own temple, come,
  Raise the song of harvest-home!

We ourselves are God's own field,
Fruit unto His praise to yield;
  Wheat and tares together sown
  Unto joy or sorrow grown.
First the blade and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear;
  Grant, O Harvest Lord, that we
  Wholesome grain and pure may be.

For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take His harvest home;
  From His field shall purge away
  All that doth offend that day:
Give His angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast;
  But the fruitful ears to store
  In His garner evermore.

Then, thou Church triumphant, come,
Bring the song of harvest-home;
  All are safely gathered in,
  Free from sorrow, free from sin,
There, for ever purified,
In God's garner to abide;
  Come, ten thousand angels, come,
  Raise the glorious harvest-home!