Tragwyddol Arglwydd wrthyt ti

Trag'wyddol Arglwydd, wrthyt ti
  Addefwn ni rai di-rym;
Mor wan yw'n pabell freuol hon,
  Pa bryfed meirwon ydym.

Ein bywyd beunydd a fyrrha,
  Fel yr amlha ein dyddiau;
Ac fel mae'n pwls yn curo'n glau,
  O hyd nesau mae angeu.

Y flwyddyn dry o ddeutu'n glau,
  A dirwyn mae i'n bywydau;
P'le bynna' b'om, beth bynn' yw'n gwaith,
  'Ry'm ni ar daith i'n beddau.

I'n gyrru i'r llwch
    o'n cylch mae'n llawn
  Beryglon mewn parodrwydd;
A heintiau llymion ym mhob lle,
  I'n hebrwng adre'n ebrwydd.

Duw da, ar ba fath edau frau
  Mae bythol bethau'n hongian;
Trag'wyddol 'stad pob marwol ddyn,
  Ar linyn bywyd egwan.

Gwynfyd neu fythol wae yw rhan
  Pob enaid pan el ymaith;
Ac etto mor ddiofal blin
  Y'm ni ar fin marwolaeth.

Ein tymmer gysglyd, Duw, deffro,
  I rodio'r ffordd beryglus;
A phan ymedy'n henaid byw,
  Boed gyd â Duw yn gorphwys.

gwelir:
  Aeth heibio etto flwyddyn gron
  [Duw da / O Dduw] ar ba fath edau frau

Eternal Lord, to thee
  We strengthless ones confess;
How weak is thy fragile tent of ours,
  What dying worms we are.

Our life daily does shorten,
  Just as our days increase;
And like our pulse beating swiftly,
  Death is always approaching.

The year turns around swiftly,
  And winding up are our lives;
Whatever we be, whatever is our work,
  We are on a journey to our graves.

To drive us to the dust
    around us is it full
  Of perils in readiness;
With acute diseases everywhere,
  To escort us home suddenly.

God God, on what fragile threads
  Are eternal things hanging;
The eternal estate of every mortal man,
  On a line of weak life.

Blessedness or eternal woe is the portion
  Of every soul when it goes away;
And yet how grievously careless
  Are we on the brink of mortality.

Our sleepy temper, Go, awaken,
  To walk the perilous way;
And when our living soul departs,
  May it be with God resting.

Thee we adore, eternal Name,
  And humbly own to thee,
How feeble is our mortal frame!
  What dying worms are we!

Our wasting lives grow shorter still
  As months and days increase;
And every beating pulse we tell
  Leaves but the number less.

The year rolls round, and steals away
  The breath that first it gave;
Whate'er we do, where'er we be,
  We're travelling to the grave.

Dangers stand thick
    thro' all the ground
  To push us to the tomb,
And fierce diseases wait around
  To hurry mortals home.

Good God! on what a slender thread
  Hang everlasting things!
Th' eternal states of all the dead
  Upon life's feeble strings.

Infinite joy or endless woe
  Attends on every breath;
And yet how unconcern'd we go
  Upon the brink of death!

Waken, O Lord, our drowsy sense
  To walk this dangerous road;
And if our souls are hurried hence,
  May they be found with God!