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!
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;
Grant, O harvest Lord, that we wholesome grain and pure may be.
For the Lord our God shall come, and shall take the 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 the garner evermore.
Then, thou Church triumphant come, raise the song of harvest home!
All be safely gathered in, free from sorrow, free from sin,
There forever purified, in God's garner to abide;
Come, ten thousand angels, come, raise the glorious harvest home!