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
That our wants are all supplied;
Come to God's own temple, come;
Raise the song of harvest home.

2 We ourselves are God's own field,
Fruit to His high 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 His harvest home;
From His field shall purge away
All that doth offend that day;
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 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.

Amen.