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 as praise to God we yield
Wheat and tares together sown
Are to 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

For the Lord our God shall come
And shall take the harvest home
From the field shall in that day
All offences purge away
Giving angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast
But the fruitful ears to store
In the garner evermore

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

Words: Henry Alford (1810 – 71)
Music: Leigh Nash