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
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.
Verse 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.
Verse 4
Then, thou 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!