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.