532 Come, ye thankful people, come

1 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. 2 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. 3 For the Lord our God shall come, And shall take His harvest home From His field shall in that day All offences 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. 4 Even so, Lord, quickly come, To Thy final harvest home! Gather Thou Thy people in, Free from sorrow, free from sin; There forever purified, In Thy presence to abide: Come, with all Thine angels, come, Raise the glorious harvest home.