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, does provide 
for our wants to be supplied; 
come to God's own temple, come, 
raise the song of harvest home. 
 
2 All the world is God's own field, 
fruit unto his praise to yield, 
wheat and tares together sown, 
unto joy or sorrows 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 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. 
 
4 Even so, Lord, quickly come 
to your final harvest home, 
gather all your people in, 
free from sorrow, free from sin, 
there, forever purified, 
in your presence to abide.
Come, with all your angels, come, 
raise the glorious harvest home.