Lord of Harvest

COME, YE THANKFUL PEOPLE, COME
Come we thankful people, come,
Rise 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 from harvest home.

All the world is God's own field,
Fruite unto his praise to yield;
Wheat 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 pure may be.

For the Lord our God shall come ,
And shall take his harvest home;
From his field shall in the that day
All offenses 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
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 thy glorious harvest home, Amen.
-Henry Alford