Come, Ye Thankful People, Come

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