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,;
Give His 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, To 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 glor'ous harvest home.