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, All our wants to be supplied,
Come to God's owe temple come, raise the song of Harvest Home.
All the world is God's ow 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.
