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 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.
3. 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.
4. Even so, Lord, quickly come, To Thy final harvest-home ; Gather Thou Thy people in, Free from sorrow, free from sin ; There, for ever purified, In Thy presence to abide : Come with all Thine angels, come, Raise the glorious harvest-home.