It's probably only a slight exaggeration to say that from first to last, Kierkegaard's sprawling body of work has only ever concerned itself with this: to insist upon the distinction between the eternal and the temporal, the divine and the worldly. As an explorer and an adventurer of the yawning chasm that separates the two, Kierkegaard often hit on those moments of 'negative' feeling: despair, fear, anxiety, dread - psychological and existential indexes of the incommensurable difference between God and man (always 'man'...), signals that one has come close to the divine, all the better to give oneself over to it. In Works of Love, a different note is struck. Not difference but affinity is the object of investigation here: love, that which is shared between God and man, and in fact is none other than God himself: God is love, as is written in the New Testament. To speak of 'works of love' then, is just to speak of works of God.
Yet precisely for this reason is Kierkegaard keen to delineate between love itself: erotic and familial love on the one hand, and divine and eternal love on the other. Love, common to both, bewitches all the more that the one can be confused for the other, sealing - whether by sin or by seduction - the eternal from the temporal. Or put otherwise, love, in its already nearness to God, threatens, by that very proximity, to keep us at a distance all too far from Him if not grasped in its holiness. To guard against just this fallenness of love, love reduced to its all-too-human dimension, is the work of Works of Love. For Kierkegaardian love is love in the strictly Christian mode: to love is to love one's neighbor as oneself. It's a formula and a universalism that cuts against any amorous exclusivity: no partner, no family and no friend is to be elevated over the neighbor, who, in being loved 'as oneself', equally divests the loving self of any partiality to this or that finite being.
This is love as universal and love as infinite. To speak of infinite love is to speak against love as an economy: no trading of love for love, no forgiveness bound by conditions, not even a preference of love for the living against love for the dead is admitted: in all cases, love, in its divine form, abides throughout - and without - change: "Meet all the terrors of the future with this comfort: love abides; meet all the anxiety and listlessness of the present with this comfort: love abides... He becomes the one who loves by abiding in love; by abiding in love his love abides." While breathtaking in its amorous fastidiousness, it's needless to say that this is also a love that demands. No sunset stroll on the beach, Kierkegaardian love asks for the infinite and rejects all half-measures: even 'the poets', who sing, intoxicated of love, are here chastised over and over for indulging in visions of love-as-passion over love as eternal.
A corrective to close: despite my own emphasis on Kierkegaard's hard and fast line between the divine and the earthly, it bears mentioning that ultimately, for Kierkegaard, it's only by honoring the infinite that the finite too can be given the edification it deserves. Thus: not the infinite in place of the finite, but the infinite for the sake of the finite are the decisive stakes of eternal love. Taken as a whole, this is, so far, my favourite of the Kierkegaard that I've read. As I mentioned earlier, while perhaps better known for his darker, moodier themes (anxiety, etc), I think precisely because this work of love lies so close to his heart, that it illuminates, all the brighter, what Kierkegaard never stopped searching for across all his work. And while slow-going at times, to read an intelligence such as this, with his vast repertoire of philosophical and literary learning at hand, piecing together his monument to love, aspect by aspect, chapter by chapter, is just to witness a small miracle in itself.