Hymn 45
Come, ye thankful people, come,
Wá, ẹnyin ọlọpe, wá
- Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of Harvest-home;
All is safely gather’d 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. - All the world is God's own field,
Fruit unto His 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. - For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take His harvest home;
From His 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. - Even so, Lord, quickly come,
To Thy final Harvest-home;
Gather Thou Thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin,
There, for ever purified,
In Thy presence to abide;
Come, with all Thine angels, come,
Raise the glorious Harvest-home. Amen.