Er c'uwch y bryniau uchel fry,
A sŵn tymhestloedd tywyll, du,
A'r holl freuddwydion ofnau sy,
  Anturiaf eto 'mlaen;
Mae nerth y nefoedd fry yn fwy
Na myrdd o'u dychryniadau hwy;
Mae haeddiant dwyfol farwol glwy
  Ymdrech na dwr a thān.

Fy noddfa gadarn fythol yw,
Y gair a ddaeth o enau'm Duw,
Y ceidw Ef fi byth yn fyw,
  Ffydlondeb yw ei ras:
Mi welaf olion traed ei saint,
Dan y cystuddiau mwya'u maint,
Yn cadw'u cysur, cadw'u braint,
  Yn wyneb angeu glās.

Os rhaid cyfarfod ar fy nhaith
A rhyw gystuddiau mawrion, maith,
A thrallod eto erioed ni ddaeth
  Yn gawod ar fy mhen;
Cāf yfed o'r afonydd clir
Sy'n tarddu fry yn Salem dir,
O dan yr orsedd ddwyfol, bur -
  Cysuron nefoedd wen.

gwelir:
    Fy noddfa gadarn fythol yw
    Os rhaid im' gwrddyd ar fy nhaith

Despite the height of the high hills above,
And the noise of the black, tempestuous weather,
And all the dreams of fears there are,
  I will venture still onwards;
The strength of heaven above is greater
Than myriads of their horrors;
The merit of a divine mortal wound is
  Victorious over water and fire.

My strong everlasting refuge is,
The word that came from the mouth of my God,
He shall keep me forever alive,
  Faithfuness is his grace:
I see the footprints of his saints,
Under the tribulations of greatest size,
Keeping their comfort, keeping their privilege,
  In the face of utter death.

If I must meet on my journey
With some great, vast tribulations,
And affliction which never yet came
  As a shower on my head;
I will get to drink of the clear rivers
Which issue above in Salem land,
Under the pure, divine throne -
  The comforts of bright heaven.