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 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.
For the Lord our God shall come, and shall take His harvest
home;
From His field shall in that day all offenses purge
away,
Giving 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, forever purified, in Thy garner to abide;
Come, with
all Thine angels come, raise the glorious harvest home.
