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, Bring Thy final harvest home; Gather Thou Thy people in, Free from sorrow, free from sin, There, forever purified, In Thy garner to abide; Come, with all Thine angels come, Raise the glorious harvest home.
Sources:
The Cyber Hymnal (http://www.hymntime.com/tch/htm/c/o/m/e/comeytpc.htm)
The Gospel Trumpet Company, Hymnal of the Church of God, 1953 (493)
