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.