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!

We ourselves are 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;

Grant, O Harvest Lord, 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 purge away

All that doth offend that day:

Give His angels charge at last

In the fire the tares to cast;

But the fruitful ears to store

In His garner evermore.

Then, thou Church triumphant, come,

Bring the song of harvest-home;

All are safely gathered in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin,

There, for ever purified,

In God’s garner to abide;

Come, ten thousand angels, come,

Raise the glorious harvest-home!

~Words: Henry Alford & Music: George Elvey