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 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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