Come, ye thankful people, come

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.

All this 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.

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.

Even so, Lord, quickly come;

Bring thy final harvest home:

Gather thou thy people in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin;

There, for ever purified,

In thy garner to abide:

Come, with all thine angels come,

Raise the glorious harvest-home!

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