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 this world is God's own field, Fruit unto his praise to yield; Wheat and tares therein are sown, Unto joy or sorrow grown; Ripening with a wondrous power Till the final harvest-hour: Grant, O Lord of life, that we Holy grain and pure may be. For we know that thou wilt come, And wilt take thy people home; From thy field wilt purge away All that doth offend, that day; And thine angels charge at last In the fire the tares to cast, But the fruitful ears to store In thy garner evermore. Come then, Lord of mercy, come, Bid us sing thy harvest-home: Let thy saints be gathered in, Free from sorrow, free from sin; All upon the golden floor Praising thee for evermore: Come, with all thine angels come, Bid us sing thy harvest-home. |
Gratus ito populus celebrandis messibus: vitat hibernas nives tuta sub tectis seges; neve quis esuriat, qui creavit, ipse dat: aede laudetur Deus messem celebrantibus. Dei mundus est ager, laudum eius fructifer: fruge et loliis satus laeta fert cum tristibus; miro more sol coquit messor dum secaverit: ut aristas redde nos puros, Deus, et probos. Namque scimus te domum portaturum populum, quo dempturum esse te omne noxium die; loliumque tum dabis comburendum angelis, far tamen perpetuo conservandum horreo. Messem, clemens Domine, celebrare nos iube; cumulari fac tuos labe et luctu liberos; areaque in aurea usque sint encomia; "Messem" et cum angelis "celebrate" dic tuis. |