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.
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 the 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, Bring 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.
