1 Come, ye thankful people, come;
raise the song of harvest home.
All be 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 as praise to God 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 the field shall in that day
all offenses purge away;
give his angels charge at last
in the fire the tares to cast,
but the fruitful ears to store
in his garner evermore.
4 Even so, Lord, quickly come
to thy final harvest home.
Gather then thy people in,
free from sorrow, free from sin,
there, forever purified,
in thy garner to abide;
Come, with all thine angels, come,
raise the glorious harvest home!
