H. Alford

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 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.


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

In His garner evermore.


Even so, Lord, quickly come

To 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.


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