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I.

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.

We ourselves are 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:
Grant, O harvest Lord, that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.

HENRY ALFORD, 1810-1871.

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