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, doth provide 
	For our wants to be supplied: 
	Come to God's own temple, come, 
	Raise the song of harvest home. 

2.	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; 
	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 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. 

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