Fy enaid hêd i'r làn o hyd

Fy enaid hêd i'r làn o hyd,
Uwch sŵn y boen
    sydd yn y byd;
  A gwêl y wir orphwysfa wiw,
  Sydd eto 'nol
      i bobl dduw.

Mae yno wleddoedd pur didrai,
I loni'r etholedig rai;
  Heb un rhagrithiwr yn eu plith,
  Na gelyn yn eu blino byth.

Pa bryd daw'r dydd
    caf finau fyn'd,
At Iesu, fy anwylaf ffrynd:
  I blith y myrdd
      sy'n hardd eu gwedd,
  Heb boen na braw tu draw i'r bedd.

- - - - -

Fy enaid, hed i'r lan o hyd,
Uwch sŵn y boen
    sydd yn y byd;
  A gwel y wir orphwysfa wiw,
  Sydd eto'n ol
      i bobl Duw.

Pan ddysgwyf 'nabod
    iaith y wlad,
A phêr ganiadau tŷ fy Nhad;
  Dechreuaf gân
      am farwol glwy',
  Na welir diwedd arni mwy?

Yn mhen rhyw oesoedd
    rif y gwlith,
Ni flina'r saint
    ei foli byth;
  Ond blas o'r newydd iddynt hwy,
  Fydd cânu am ei farwol glwy'.

My soul, fly up always,
Above the sound of the pain
    that is in the world;
  And see the true, worthy resting-place,
  Which still remains
      for the people of God.

There are there pure, unebbing feasts,
To cheer the chosen ones,
  Without any hypocrite amongst them,
  Nor enemy ever grieving them.

When shall come the day
    that I shall get to go,
To Jesus, my most beloved friend:
  Amongst the myriad
      who are of beautiful countenance,
  Without pain or terror beyond the grave?

- - - - -

My soul, fly up always,
Above the sound of the pain
    that is in the world;
  And see the true, worthy resting-place,
  Which still remains
      for the people of God.

When I learn to recognize
    the language of the land,
And the sweet songs of my Father's house,
  I shall begin a song
      about a mortal wound,
  Whose end is not to be seen any more.

At the end of some ages
    numerous as the dew,
The saints shall never
    exhaust their praise,
  But their relish anew
  Shall be to sing about his mortal wound.