1 Come, you 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 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.

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
I 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 garner to abide.
Come, with all your angels, come,
Raise the glorious harvest home!

(by Henry Alford)