B'le trof fy wyneb, Arglwydd cu,
  Ond atat ti dy hunan?
Pob peth gweledir 'thal e ddim
  Ond gneuthur imi riddfan.

Mi bwysaf atat etto'n nes,
  Pa les im' ddigaloni?
Mae sôn am danat y'mhob man
  Yn codi'r gwan i fynu.

Dysgwyl yr wyf, a hyn bob cam,
  Fel gwyliwr am y boreu,
Gael profi grym
    dy nefol ras
  I'm dwyn o'm hadgas feiau.

O dwg fy enaid llesg i'r lan,
  I'r man 'rwyt Ti'n preswylio;
Wrth deithio'r anial maith yn hir,
  'Rwyf wedi gwir ddyffygio.

B'le tro' fy wyneb, Arglwydd cu,
  Ond atat Ti dy hunan?
Pob peth gweledig, thâl ef ddim,
  Ond gwneuthur imi riddfan.

Os yw'n gofidiau yn y byd
  I bara hyd y diwedd;
O fewn y nef fe dderfydd hyn,
  Troir tristwch yn orfoledd.

Po mwyaf gawn o wres y dydd,
  Mwy yno fydd ein moliant;
Cawn yn lle
    cystudd byr a dwys,
  Drag'wyddol bwys gogoniant.

Pryd hyn pereiddia Duw o'r bron
  Holl ddyfroedd chwerwon Mara;
Pryd hyn y trŷ pob chwerw nant
  Yn win i blant Iehofah.

Po mwyaf fo'u cyfyngder hwy,
  Bydd fwy-fwy eu cysuron;
Eu hedd melusach na'r dil mêl,
  A lifa fel yr afon.

            - - - - -

B'le tro'f fy wyneb, Arglwydd cu,
  Ond atat ti dy hunan?
Pob peth gweledig, 'thâl ef ddim,
  Ond gwneuthur imi ruddfan.

Yn dy gyfamod, mae'n fy ngho',
  Fod myrdd o addewidion,
Rhai yn cyhoeddi llwyr iachad,
  Trwy rin dy wa'd
      i'r cleifion.

'Rwy'n curo wrth dy borth yn hy
  Am ddod i mewn i wledda;
Nid boddlon wyf i fod tu faes
  I gaerau'r ddinas noddfa.

Dysgwyl yr wyf, a hyn bob cam,
  Fel gwyliwr am y boreu;
I brofi cryfder
    braich dy ras,
  A'm tyn o'm hatgas feiau.

Y galon gareg, gyndyn, wael,
  Gâd i mi gael ei newid;
Y galon gig rho imi'n glau,
  Can's felly mae d'addewid.

gwelir:
  Blwyddyn y carcharorion caeth
  Dy babell di mor hyfryd yw (Prys/Williams)
  Dy Babell Di mor hyfryd yw (W Williams)
  Darfu fy nerth 'rwy'n llwfrhau
  Dy ras yw'm gobaith O fy Nuw
  Ffarwèl mi âf yn mlaen i'r wlad
  Mi nesaf atat etto'n nes
  Nid oes heb ollwng gaed yn lli
  O moes dy law 'r Iorddonen mae
  Os yw'n gofidiau yn y byd
  Yn awr y gwn fod Iesu cu
  Yn Dy gyfammod mae'n fy ngho'

Where should I turn my face, dear Lord,
  But to thee thyself?
Everything to be seen is of no worth
  But to make me groan.

I will lean more closely upon thee
  Why should I be downhearted?
Telling about thee in every place
  Raises up the weak.

Expecting I am, and this at every step,
  Like a watchman for the morning,
To get to experience the force
    of thy heavenly grace
  To bring me out of my hated faults.

O lead my feeble soul up,
  To the place Thou art residing;
While travelling long the vast desert,
  I am truly exhausted.

Where shall I turn my face, dear Lord,
  But to Thee thyself?
Everything visible, is of no worth,
  But to make me groan.

If our griefs in the world are
  To continue until the end;
Within heaven this will vanish,
  Sadness is to be turned to jubilation.

The more we get of the heat of the day,
  The greater there shall be our praise;
We may get in place
    of short and intense affliction,
  An eternal weight of glory.

Then shall God sweeten utterly
  All the bitter waters of Mara;
Then shall turn every bitter stream
  To wine for the children of Jehovah.

The greater be their straits,
  Even greater shall be their comforts;
Their peace sweeter than the comb of honey,
  Shall flow like the river.

                - - - - -

Where shall I turn my face, dear Lord,
  But towards thee thyself?
Every thing visible, it pays nothing,
  But makes me groan.

In thy covenant, it is my memory,
  That there are a myriad of promises,
Some announcing complete healing
  Through the merit of thy blood
      for the sick.

I am knocking at thy gate boldly
  To come in to feast;
I am not content to be outside
  The citadels of the city of refuge.

Waiting I am, and this at every step,
  Like a watchman for the morning;
To experience the strength
    of the arm of thy grace,
  Which pulls me from my detestable sins.

The stubborn, base heart of stone,
  Let me get it changed;
The heart of flesh give me quickly,
  Since thus is thy promise.