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 offenses 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.
Happy Thanksgiving to you, my friends.
Song: ‘Come, Ye Thankful People, Come’
Words by Henry Alford
Music by George J. Elvey