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 sorrows
grown;
First the blade, and then
the ear,
Then the full corn shall
appear.
Lord of harvest, grant
that we
wholesome graini 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 ever-more.
Even so, Lord, quickly
come,
To Thy final harvest
hime;
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.
Henry Alford, 1844