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Sing
Along
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,
Giving 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.
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