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."