Latinised Hymns

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.

H. Alford

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.