come ye thankful people come

God, our Maker, doth provide

For our wants to be supplied:

Come to God's own temple, come

Raise the song of harvest-home.

All the 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.

For the Lord our God shall come

And shall take His harvest home;

From His field shall in that day

All offenses 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.

Even so, Lord, quickly come

To Thy final harvest-home;

Gather Thou Thy people in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin;

There, forever purified,

In Thy presence to abide:

Come, with all Thine angels, come

Raise the glorious harvest-home.