Mor wag yw pob peth sy'n y byd

How vain are all things here below

(Cariad i'r Creduriaid yn beryglus)
Mor wag yw pob peth sy'n y byd!
Twyllodrus yw'r peth tecca'i bryd:
  Ym mhob rhyw bleser
      gwenwyn sydd,
  Ac ym mhob melus faglau cudd.

Y peth disgleiriaf dan y nef,
Rhyw lewyrch gau a ddyry ef;
  Ofnwn fod perygl yn nesau,
  O's pleser fyddwn yn fwynhau.

Y pethau anwylaf o'n mwynhad,
Ein fryns agosaf a'n cyd-wa'd;
  Sy'n rhannu ein cariad, camwedd yw,
  A gado ond hanner hwn i Dduw.

Anwyldra serch creadur sy'
Yn gweithio yn ein cnawd mor gry';
  Ar hwn y rhed ein calon ffol,
  Ni's gallwn chwaith ei galw'n ol.

Dy degwch, f'anwyl Brynwr wyd,
I'm henaid f'o'n drag'wyddol fwyd;
  A gras a dynno'm serch i gyd,
  O bob creadur sy'n y byd.
cyf. Dafydd Jones 1711-77
Psalmau Dafydd 1775

[Mesur: MH 8888]

(Love for the Creatures perilous)
How empty is everything in the world!
Deceptive is the thing of fairest interest:
  In every kind of pleasure
      there is poison,
  And in every sweet hidden snares.

The most radiant thing under heaven,
Some false gleam it gives;
  I would fear that peril is approaching,
  If pleasure I were enjoying.

The dearest thing of my enjoyment,
Our closest friends and our relatives;
  Who share our love, a mistake it is,
  Leaving but half of this behind for God.

The dear affection of a creature is
Working in our flesh so strongly:
  That on which runs our foolish heart,
  We cannot either call back.

Thy fairness, my dear Redeemer, I know,
To my soul be it eternal food;
  And may grace attract all my affection,
  From every creature that is in the world.
tr. 2021 Richard B Gillion
 
How vain are all things here below!
  How false, and yet how fair!
Each pleasure hath
    its poison too,
  And every sweet a snare.

The brightest things below the sky
  Give but a flattering light;
We should suspect some danger nigh
  Where we possess delight.

Our dearest joy, and nearest friends,
  The partners of our blood,
How they divide our wavering minds,
  And leave but half for God!

The fondness of a creature's love,
  How strong it strikes the sense!
Thither the warm affections move,
  Nor can we call them thence.

My Saviour, let thy beauties be
  My soul's eternal food;
And grace command my heart away
  From all created good.
Isaac Watts 1674-1748

Tune [CM 8686]: Peterborough (Ralph Harrison 1748-1810)

The middle column is a literal translation of the Welsh. A Welsh translation is identified by the abbreviation 'cyf.' (emulation by 'efel.'), an English translation by 'tr.'

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