Fy nghalon O mor galed yw

Fy nghalon, O mor galed yw,
Er clywed peraidd eiriau Duw;
  Trom, oer, a marw dan fy mron,
  Fel craig o iâ 'r wy'n teimlo hon.

Ni chaf at Dduw prin godi llef,
Na phrofi dim o ras y nef,
  Gan fel mae hon yn llethu'm ffydd,
  A mygu'm sêl a'm
      cariad bydd.

Tynera'm calon, Iesu mâd,
Yn ffynnon goch dy werthfawr waed:
  Nid all ond gwaed Mab Duw ei hun,
  Byth doddi'r fath garegog un.

My heart, O how hard it is,
Despite hearing the sweet words of God,
  Heavy, cold, and dea under my breast,
  Like a rock of ice I am feeling this.

To God I may scarcely get to raise a cry,
Or experience any of the grace of heaven,
  In that this is stifling my faith,
  And choking my zeal and my
      love it shall be.

Make my heart tender, good Jesus,
In the red fount of thy precious blood:
  Only the blood of the Son of God himself,
  Can melt such a stony one.

My heart, how dreadful hard it is!
  How heavy here it lies!
Heavy and cold within my breast,
  Just like a rock of ice!

How seldom do
    I rise to God,
  Or taste the joys above!
This mountain presses down my faith,
  And chills my flaming love.

Dear Saviour, steep this rock of mine
  In thine own crimson sea;
None but a bath
    of blood divine
  Can melt the flint away.