1 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!

2 We ourselves are 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;
Grant, O Harvest-Lord, 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 in that day
All offences 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 Then, thou Church Triumphant, come,
Raise the song of Harvest Home!
All are safely gather'd in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin:
There, forever purified,
In God's garner to abide;
Come, ten thousand angels, come,
Raise the glorious Harvest Home!