Wele'r Crochenydd wele'r clai

Wele'r Crochenydd, wele'r clai,
Gwneud Llestri fel y mynno mae;
  Y fath yw pen-arg'lwyddiaeth Duw,
  A'i arfaeth dros holl ddynol-ryw.

On'd all y Gweithydd Celfydd call,
Wneud o'r un telpyn pridd
    heb ball;
  Ei Lestri fel mae am eu cael,
  Rhai i ddefnydd gwych,
      rhai i ddefnydd gwael.

On'd all ein Harglwydd mawr heb dra,
Roi'i ras lle mynno,
    a'i 'w'llys da;
  Sef dewis rhai
      i fyw o blith,
  Eraill a fyddo'n marw byth?

Beth o's i ddangos 'i ofnau mae
Yn gado'i amynedd hir barhau,
  I oddef dynion cyndyn syth,
  Trwy bechu,
      selio'u distryw byth:

Beth o's yw'n Meddwl trugarhau,
O'i gariad rhad, ac ethol rhai
  O'r un colledig ddynol-ryw,
  A'u pur addasu
      i deyrnas Dduw?

A ddadlei dyn yn erbyn Duw?
A d'wedyd, mai anghyfiawn yw,
  'R hwn all a'i air mewn munud awr
  Droi'n llwch gan mil
      o fydoedd mawr?

Ond o's bydd i'r gwir disglair hyn,
O f'enaid, ddallu'th olwg syn;
  Cais ufuddhau i'w air trwy ffydd,
  A disgwyl hyd y barnol ddydd.

Yna'i gyfiawnder f'eglurha,
A'r byd ger bron, y drwg a'r da,
  Cānt adde'n llon,
      neu'n brudd eu llef,
  Ogoniant ei gyfiawnder ef.

See the Potter, see the clay,
Making pots as he does;
  Such is the chief-lordship of God,
  With his purpose for all human-kind.

Cannot the wise craftsman
Make from the same lump of soil
    without fail;
  His vessels as they are got,
  Some for brilliant use,
      some for base use.

Cannot our great Lord without fault
Put his grace where he will,
    with his good will;
  That is, choose those
      to live from amongst them,
  Others who shall be dead forever?

What if to show his fears he is
Keeping his patience long to continue,
  To suffer stubborn, stiff men,
  Through sinning,
      to seal their destruction forever:

What if he is a Physician of mercies,
From his free love, and chooses some
  From the same lost human-kind,
  And purely adapt them
      for the kingdom of God?

Shall man argue against God?
And say that he is unrighteous,
  He who can with his word in a minute
  Turn to dust a hundred thousand
      great worlds?

But if this shining truth,
O my soul, blind thy surprised vision;
  Seek to obey his word through faith,
  And wait until the judgment day.

Then his righteousness shall make clear,
And the world nearby, the evil and the good,
  They shall get to confess cheerfully,
      or sadly their cry,
  The glory of his righteousness.

Behold the potter and the clay,
  He forms his vessels as he please;
Such is our God, and such are we,
  The subjects of His high decrees.

Doth not the workman's power extend
  O'er all the mass,
      which part to choose
And mold it for a nobler end,
  And which to leave
      for viler use?

May not the sovereign Lord on high
  Dispense His favours
      as He will,
Choose some to life,
    while others die,
  And yet be just and gracious still?

What if, to make His terror known,
  He lets His patience long endure,
Suff'ring vile rebels to go on,
  And seal
      their own destruction sure?

What if He means to show His grace,
  And His electing love employs
To make out some of mortal race,
  And form them fit
      for heav'nly joys?

Shall man reply against the Lord,
  And call his maker's ways unjust,
The thunder of whose dreadful word
  Can crush a thousand worlds
      to dust?

But, O my soul! if truths so bright
  Should dazzle and confound thy sight,
Yet still His written will obey,
  And wait the great decisive day.

Then shall He make His justice known,
  And the whole world before His throne
With joy or terror
    shall confess
  The glory of His righteousness.