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.



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,

Giving 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, Bring Thy Final Harvest Home;

Gather Thou Thy People In, Free From Sorrow, Free From Sin,

There, Forever Purified, In Thy Garner To Abide;

Come, With All Thine Angels Come, Raise The Glorious Harvest Home.