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Prophet in the Suit by Peter

SongGPT
Prophet in the Suit by Peter - Gospel Soul music cover art

Prophet in the Suit

Gospel Soul

0:003:18
Lyrics
Description
Underneath the pale grey sky, A seat holds more than wooden tie.
Peter Tepa folds his hands like maps worn thin, His gaze cuts sharper than the daylight dim.
Suit pressed tight, but shoulders bare, Stories of a weight you rarely wear.
The room breathes out, still the calm before rains, He carries silent calls and unspoken refrains.
Sitting still yet moving slower, The air bends round the weight of world and its owner.
In his hands, the seconds thread fine, Each moment a prayer, a boundary line.
Peter Tepa in the seat of command, Every wrinkle, every fold, a place to stand.
A voice carved from storms, steady as ground, Speaking peace where chaos is found.
Carry the name, carry the oath, A man, a mantle between heaven and gross.
Look close and catch the flicker in the room, A decision shape under the hum of looming gloom.
He weighs a future tangled in the past slow crawl, I sailed overseas no compass can call.
Threads of fate stitched tight in a quiet fight, He holds a flame not loudly bright.
Respect is given, not just earned but made, In the quiet laws of the choices laid.
The chair's cold, wooden worn edges frame, A portrait drawn without any name.
Peter Tepa, prophet in his own right, Turns shadows to dawn, reclaiming night.
Peter Tepa in the seat of command, Every wrinkle, every fold, a place to stand.
A voice carved from storms, steady as ground, Speaking peace where chaos is found.
Carry the name, carry the oath, A man, a mantle between heaven and gross.
Not just the suit or the posture kept, But the moments when the world has wept.
His silence louder than the thundering cries, Wisdom woven through tired eyes.
Here in quiet convictions keep, He plants the seeds for those who reap.
Peter Tepa in the seat of command, Every wrinkle, every fold, a place to stand.
A voice carved from storms, steady as ground, Speaking peace where chaos is found.
Carry the name, carry the oath, A man, a mantle between heaven and gross.
The room exhales, the whispers fade, Peter Tepa, still he's made,
A space where hope and duty blend, A start, a path, and no clear end.
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