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.