Clywch, clywch tebygaf clywaf lais
8,8,8,8
Hark, hark! methinks I hear a voice,
Swift piercing through the troubled sky:
|He comes, He comes; ye saints rejoice;
The end, the end of time, is nigh!
Ye saints from dust awake, awake,
To joys immortal wing your flight:
Of crowns, and harps, and thrones partake,
They are your endless, blood-bought right.|