Verse 1
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.
Verse 2
All the world is God's own field, Fruit as praise to God we yield; Wheat and tares together sown Are to 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.
Verse 3
For the Lord our God shall come, And shall take the harvest home; From the 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.
Verse 4
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 presence to abide; Come, with all thine angels, come, Raise the glorious harvest home.