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!