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 God's praise to yield;
Wheat and weed together sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown;
First the blade and then the ear,
Then the ripened stalk appears:
Lord of harvest, grant that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.

3 For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take the harvest home,
From the field shall in that day
All offenses purge away;
Giving angels charge at last
In the fire the weeds to cast:
But the fruitful ears to store;
Bounteous harvest evermore.

4 Even so, Lord, quickly come,
Bring the 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.