Come, Ye Thankful People, Come

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 joys 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.

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.

Even so Lord quickly come to thy final harvest home.
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.

Words by Dr. Henry Alford in 1844