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!

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.

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.

Then

thou Church tri­umph­ant

come

Bring 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!