357. 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 son^ of Harvest-Home!

What is earth but God's own field,

Fruit unto His praise to yield?

Wheat and tares therein are sown,

Unto joy or sorrow grown;

Ripening with a wondrous power,

Till the final Harvest-Hour:

Grant, O Lord of Life, that we

Holy grain and pure may be.

For we know that Thou wilt come,

And wilt take Thy people home;

From Thy field wilt purge away

All that cloth offend, that day;

And Thine Angels charge at last

In the fire the tares to cast,

But the fruitful ears to store

In Thy garner evermore.

Come then, Lord of mercy, come,

Bid us sing Thy Harvest-Home!

Let Thy Saints be gathered in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin;

All upon the golden floor

Praising Thee for evermore;

Come, with thousand Angels come;

Bid us sing Thy Harvest-Home!