1 Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of harvest home:
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter storms begin;
God, our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied;
Come to God's own temple, come,
Raise the song of harvest home.
2 All the world is God's own field,
Fruit unto God's praise to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown;
First the blade, and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear:
Lord of harvest, grant that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.
3 For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take the harvest home;
From each field shall in that day
All offenses purge away;
Give the angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast,
But the fruitful ears to store
In God's garner evermore.
4 Even so, Lord, quickly come
To Thy final harvest home;
Gather Thou Thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin;
There forever purified,
In Thy presence to abide:
Come, with all Thine angels come,
Raise the glorious harvest home.
