Come, Ye Thankful People, Come

COME, YE THANKFUL PEOPLE, COME

by

Henry 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 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.