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
for our wants to be supplied:
Come to God's own temple, come -
Raise the song of harvest home.

2 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.

3 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.

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.