What is Love?     Young, oblivious and know-it-all snide, I looked at life as if the world were my due. To impress myself - for surely I knew - "What is love?" I asked brimming with pride.     In time, I cast my youthful brashness aside. Indeed time taught a hard-earned humility. What once was owed was now sought with . . . trepidity. "What is love?" I wistfully s-i-g-h-e-d.     Day by day and year by year the pain grows inside. What once I presumed mine and which later I sought Except for troubled memories, has left me naught. "What is love?" in anguish I CRIED!     A man painted red - with his own blood undried From his wounded feet to his thorn-crowned head. Nailed upon a cross, He hung I knew, in my stead. "This is love." Christ said as He bowed his head . . . and died.     May 1992