Letras
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
Weed and weeds together sow
Archer, joy or sorrow, grow
First the blade and then the ear
And the full crop shall appear
Lord of harvest, grant that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be
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
Come with all thine angels, come
Come with all thine angels, come