Henry Alford (1810–1871)

(Harvest)

COME, ye thankful people, come,

Raise the song of Harvest-home

All is safely gather’d 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 this 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 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.

Even so, Lord, quickly come,

Bring Thy final Harvest-home;

Gather Thou Thy people in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin;

There for ever purified,

In Thy garner to abide:

Come, with all Thine angels, come,

Raise the glorious Harvest-home!