A-men.

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 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.

3 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.

4 Even so, Lord, quickly come
To Thy final harvest-home;
Gather Thou Thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin,
There for ever purified,
In Thy presence to abide:

Come, with all Thine angels, come,

Raise the glorious harvest-home!

Henry Alford, 1844 (text of 1867)

DIE TUGEND 9. 8. 9. 8. D.

$3 4

We reap it on mountain and moorland; We glean it from meadow and lea; We garner it in from the cloudland; We bind it in sheaves from the sea.

3 But the song it goes deeper and higher; There are harvests that eye cannot see; They ripen on mountains of duty,

Are reaped by the brave and the free. O Thou, who art Lord of the harvest, The Giver who gladdens our days, Our hearts are for ever repeating Thanksgiving and honor and praise.

John W. Chadwick, 1871

J. L. F. Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, 1809-1847

LEIPSIC 7. 6. 7. 6. D.

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