[as]

"A sonnet...is a strict form of poetry, is it not?" "Yes." "There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That's a very strict rhythm or meter, yes?" "Yes." Calvin nodded. "And each line has to end with a rigid rhyme pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet, is it?" "No." "But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants, doesn't he?" "Yes." Calvin nodded again. "So." Mrs. Whatsit said. "So what?" "Oh do not be stupid boy!" Mrs. Whatsit scolded. "You know perfectly well what I am driving at." "You mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it?" "Yes...You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you." ['A Wrinkle in Time' by Madeleine L'Engle]

Isn't this just like our life? God has made us in His image, yet He gives us the power to choose for ourselves between right and wrong. Our life is our sonnet we're writing. What does your sonnet say so far?