Molwch yr Arglwydd can's da yw

Molwch yr Arglwydd: can's da yw
Ar llais a'r galon foli Duw;
  Ei natur ef a'i waith a'n gwawdd,
  I wneud y gorchwyl hwn yn hawdd.

Fe wnaeth y sêr uwch ben y byd:
Fe wyr eu rhîf a'i henwau 'gyd:
  Doethineb Duw sydd ddyfnder mawr,
  Lle sawdd ein holl feddyliau lawr.

Cenwch i'r Iôn, dyrchefwch ef
A dân gymmylau dros y nef:
  Yno y darpar ffrwythlawn wlaw;
  I lonni'r ddaear sych 'fe ddaw.

A gwellt 'fe hardda'r bryniau gyd,
A'r meusydd llon 'fe'u gwisg âg ŷd;
  Yr anifeiliaid a byrth ef,
  A'r cigfrain ieuangc
      pan ro'nt lêf.

Beth yw cre'duriaid dewrion hy,
Y biwiog ŵr a'r cadfarch cry':
  Y synwyr glau, a'r aelod gref?
  Nid y'nt hyfrydwch iddo ef.

Ond saint sydd hawddgar ger ei fron
Ei blant yw ei hyfrydwch llon:
  Eu gobaith gwel,
      a'u hofnau gŵyr;
  Ei ddelw'i hun mae'n hoffi'n llwyr.

Praise ye the Lord: for he is good
With voice and the heart praise God;
  His nature and his work invite us,
  To do this task easily.

He made the stars above the world:
He knows their number and all their names:
  The wisdom of God is a great deep,
  Where all our thoughts sink down.

Sing to the Lord, exalt him
Who spreads clouds across heaven:
  There he prepares fruitful rain;
  To cheer the dry earth it comes.

With grass he adorns all the hills,
And the cheerful fields he clothes with corn;
  The animals he feeds,
  And the young carrion crows
      when they give a cry.

What are brave, bold creatures,
The lively man and the strong war-horse:
  The swift sense, and the strong limb?
  They are no delight to him.

But saints are beautiful before him
His children are his cheeful delight:
  Their hope he sees,
      and their fears he knows;
  His own image he is loving completely.

Praise ye the Lord; 'tis good to raise
Our hearts and voices in His praise;
  His nature and His works invite
  To make this duty our delight.

He formed the stars, those heav'nly flames;
He counts their numbers, calls their names;
  His wisdom's vast, and knows no bound,
  A deep where all our thoughts are drowned.

Sing to the Lord, exalt Him high,
Who spreads His clouds all round the sky;
  There He prepares the fruitful rain,
  Nor lets the drops descend in vain.

He makes the grass the hills adorn,
And clothes the smiling fields with corn;
  The beasts with food His hands supply,
  And the young ravens
      when they cry.

What is the creature's skill or force,
The sprightly man, the warlike horse,
  The nimble wit, the active limb?
  All are too mean delights for Him.

But saints are lovely in His sight,
He views His children with delight;
  He sees their hope,
      He knows their fear,
  And looks, and loves His image there.