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
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.
3
For
the Lord our God shall come,
And
shall take His harvest home;
From
His field shall purge away
All
that doth offend, that day;
Give
His angels charge at last
In
the fire the tares to cast,
But
the fruitful ears to store
In
His garner evermore.
4
Then,
the church triumphant, come,
Raise
the song of harvest home;
All
are 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!