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 our 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 purge away

All that doth offend, that day;

Give his angels charge at last

In the fires the tares to cast,

But the fruitful ears to store

In his garner evermore.

4 Then, thou Church triumphant, come,

Raise the song of Harvest-home!

All are safely gathered in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin;

There for ever, purified,

In God’s garner to abide;

Come, ten thousand angels, come,

Raise the glorious Harvest-home!