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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, does provide for our wants to be supplied;
come to God's own temple, come, raise the song of harvest home.
All the blessings of the field, all the stores the gardens yield,
all the fruits in full supply, ripened 'neath the summer sky,
All the spring with bounteous hand scatters o'er the smiling land,
all that liberal autumn pours from its rich o'er flowing stores.
These to You, our God, we owe, source from whom our blessings flow;
and for these our souls shall raise grateful vows and worthy praise.
Come, then thankful people come, raise the song of harvest home;
come to God's own temple, come, raise the song of harvest home.