First Line: Come, ye thankful people, come,

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 All this 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.

3 For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take His harvest-home ;
From His field shall in that day
All offences 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.

4 Even so, Lord, quickly come,
To Thy final harvest-home ;
Gather Thou Thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin ;
There, for ever purified,
In Thy presence to abide :
Come with all Thine angels, come,
Raise the glorious harvest-home.