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 the blessings of the field,
all the stores the gardens yield,
all the fruits in full supply,
ripen'd 'neath the summer sky,
all that spring with bounteous hand
scatters o'er the smiling land,
all that lib'ral autumn pours
comes from God's o'erflowing stores.

3 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.