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!