1. 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; Bring Thy final harvest home; Gather Thou Thy people in, Free from sorrow, free from sin, There, for ever purified, In Thy garner to abide; Come, with all Thine angels come Raise the glorious harvest home.