Come, Ye Thankful People, Come

Come, ye thankful people, come,Raise the song of Harvest-home;All is safely gathered inEre the winter storms begin;God, our Maker, doth provideFor our wants to be supplied.Come to God’s own temple, come;Raise the song of Harvest-home.

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.Lord of harvest, grant that weWholesome grain and pure may be.

For the Lord, our God, shall comeAnd shall take His harvest home;From His field shall purge awayAll that doth offend, that day;Give His angels charge at lastIn the fire the tares to cast,But the fruitful ears to storeIn His garner evermore.

Come, Thou Lord of harvest, comeTo Thy final Harvest-home;Gather Thou Thy people in,Free from sorrow, free from sin,There, forever purified,In Thy garner to abide.Come with all Thine angels, come,Raise the glorious Harvest-home!