Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of harvest home
All be 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.

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,
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 offences purge away.
Giving 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,
Bing Thy final harvest home.
Gather Thou Thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin.
There, forever purified,
In Thy garner to abide,
Come, with all Thine angels, come,
Raise the glorious harvest home.