Mae miloedd yn canmol yr Oen

Mae miloedd yn canmol yr Oen,
  Yn hyfryd a chyson eu sain,
Wrth gofio am ddyfnder ei boen
  Dan hoelion a choron o ddrain:
Eu calon gan gariad yn dan,
  Yn enyn yn wenfflam o hyd,
Holl hoffder a
    sylwedd eu can,
  Yw canmawl Iachawdwr y byd.

Pob telyn yn dynion eu tant,
  Yn rhoddi gogoniant i'r Oen,
A olchodd eu pechod i banr,
  Trwy haeddiant a rhinwedd ei boen;
Maent yno yn gweled ei wedd,
  Heb bechod, na llygredd, na chlwy,
Uwch uffern, ac angau, a'r bedd;
  Gorfoledd diddiwedd cant mwy.

Yn ngwlad y gogoniant a'r hedd,
  Mae llawnder gorfoledd didrai,
Heb gynen, na chynnwrf, na chledd,
  Na phechod, na llygredd, na bai;
Yr holl delynorion y sy,
  Yn canu yr anthem o fawl,
I'r Iesua'u carodd mor gu,
  A'u dwyn i feddiannu'r fath hawl.

Yn addfwyn dyoddefodd yr Oen,
  Wasgfeuon tra chreulon a chur,
Ar fynydd Calfaria trwy boen,
  Hir oriau dan hoelion o ddur;
O'r archoll a wnaed dan ei fron
  Daeth ffynnon fel afon o waed,
Mae rhinwedd digonol yn hon,
  Roi eto i'r cleifion iachad.

Fy enaid, er dyfned yw'th bla,
  Mae noddfa yn haeddiant yr Oen,
Cred ynddo efe a'th iacha
  O'th glwyfau,
      er cymaint dy boen;
Er dued, fy enaid yw'th liw,
  Mae'r ffynnon yn loyw i gyd,
I ganu, a golchi dy friw,
  Ddoe, heddyw, yr un yw o hyd.

Y ffynnon a darddodd cyn hyn,
  O ystlys fy Mrenin ar groes,
I olchi fy enaid yn wyn,
  A'm dilyn holl ddyddiau fy oes;
Nes gorphen trwy'r
    anial yn lan,
  A glanio ar Ganaan mewn hedd,
I'r nefol hyfrydwch o'i fla'n,
  I weled yn wiwlan ei wedd.

Gelynion uffernol yn llu,
  Sy'n peri i mi grynu yn awr,
A chorff y farwolaeth y sy,
  'Mron llethu fy yspryd i'r llawr;
Gwynfyd na chawn weled y dydd,
  Y derfydd am bechod a'i boen,
A'm henaid gael myned yn rhydd,
  I ganu'n drag'wyddol i'r Oen.

Gan rym fy ngelynion yn llym,
  Mae'm telyn yn fynych o'i lle,
Heb nemawr o'i thannau yn dyn,
  I ganmawl fy Mrenin o dde;
Gwynfyd na chyhaeddwn uwch llid,
  Y cythraul cynhenllyd, a'r cnawd,
Holl dwyll a hudoliaeth y byd,
  A dihengyd i fynwes fy Mrawd.

Er amled, creuloned yw'r llu,
  Sy am rwystro fy enaid i'r lan,
Cadarnach a chryfach o hyd,
  Yw'r Cadben sy
      o ochr y gwan;
Bu'i hunan mewn rhyfel
    oedd flin,
  Concwerodd y gelyn a'i gledd,
Myn weled ei frodyr bob un,
  Mewn gwynfyd dderfyn o hedd.

Gan nad oes un arall all ddo'd
  Ond Iesu a'i friod i'r lan,
Rhown iddo'r gogoniant a'r clod,
  Mae'n wastad yn gysgod i'r gwan;
Clod iddo sy'n deilwng ar g'oedd,
  Trwy'r ddaear, a'r nefoedd uwch ben;
Clod iddo rydd Seiono'i bodd,
  Clod iddo medd f'enaid, Amen.

Thousands are extolling the Lamb,
  Delightful and constant their sound,
On remembering the depth of his pain
  Under nails and crown of thorn:
Their hearts with love on fire,
  Kindling into a blaze still,
All the delight and
    substance of their song,
  Is the extolling of the world's Saviour.

Every harp with their strings tight,
  Giving glory to the Lamb,
Who washed their sins away,
  Through the virtue and merit of his pain;
There they are seeing his countenance,
  Without sin, or corruption, or sickness,
Above hell, and death, and the grave;
  Endless jubilation they have evermore.

In the land of glory and of peace,
  There is unebbing fullness of jubilation,
Without conflict, or tumult, or sword,
  Or sin, or corruption, or fault;
All the harps there are,
  Singing the the anthem of praise,
To Jesus who loved them so dearly,
  And brought them to possess such a right.

Tenderly the Lamb suffered,
  Pressures so cruel and wounding,
On the mount of Calvary through pain,
  Long hours under nails of steel;
From the wound made under his breast
  Came a fountain like a river of blood,
There is sufficient virtue in this,
  Still to give healing to the sick.

My soul, despite have deep is thy plague,
  There is refuge in the merit of the Lamb,
Believe in him and he will heal thee
  Of thy sicknesses,
      although thy pain be great;
Despite how black, my soul, is thy colour,
 The fountain is all bright,
To bleach, and wash thy bruise,
  Yesterday, today, the same he is always.

The fountain that once sprang,
  From the side of my King on a cross,
To wash my soul white,
  Shall follow me all the days of my age;
Until finishing through the
    desert completely,
  And landing on Canaan in peace,
To the heavenly delight before it,
  To see worthily holy his countenance.

Infernal enemies as a host,
  Are causing me to tremble now,
And the body of mortality is
  Almost stifling my spirit to the ground;
How blessed for me to get to see the day,
  Of the ending of sin and its pain,
When my soul shall get to go free,
  To sing eternally to the Lamb.

Since the power of my enemies is keen,
  My harp is often out of tune,
With hardly any of its strings tight,
  To extol my King aright;
How blessed for me to reach above the wrath
  Of the contentious devil, and the flesh,
All the deception and charm of the world,
  Amd to escape to the bosom of my Brother.

Although so manifold, cruel is the host,
  That wants to obstruct my soul totally,
Firmer and stronger yet,
  Is the Captain who is
      on the side of the weak;
He himself was in a battle
    that was grievous,
  He conquered the enemy and his sword,
He wants to see his brothers every one,
  In an endless blessedness of peace.

Since no one else but Jesus
  Could bring his spouse up,
Let us give him the glory and the acclaim,
  He is constantly a shelter to the weak;
Acclaim to him who is worthy publicly,
  Throughout the earth, and heaven above;
Acclaim to him Zion shall give voluntarily,
  Acclaim to him, says my soul, Amen.