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.