transmutes their cheerless blasphemy into a lover's word

When it was quite dark and there was no sound at all except of a difficult breathing coming up from the earth, and intermittently the half-cries of those who would call strongly from their several and lonely places, on
that Creature of Water, or on
some creature of their own kind by name, as on
gentle Margaret on
Amy, on Gwenfrewi
on Bella on Donabelle
on Aunt Birch on
Ned
long dead, on old dead Elfred, on great-uncle George, on Brigit the Kildare maid that kindled the fires for Billy of Clonmor in the hortus of Iverna. On Joan the maid that keeled the pots beyond the beige doors at Mrs Jack Horners. Or on those Bright ones to whose particular cults they were dedicate.
On God the Father of Heaven because with Him there is neither wounding nor unwounding. On God the Word because by Him we know the wound and the salve, on God the Life Giver because His workings are never according to plan and because of the balm under His wing, and because of Him even the G. O. C. In C.'s division before the Mill can shine with the spendour of order. The Sanctifier and bright Lord who is glorious in operation, the dispositioner, the effector of all trans-substantiations, who sets the traverse wall according to the measure of the angel with the reed, who knows best how to gather his epiklesis from that open plain, who transmutes their cheerless blasphemy into a lover's word, who spoke by Balaam and by Balaam's ass, who spoke also by Sgt. Bullcock.
On the Lamb because He was slain.
On the Word seen by men because He could not carry the cross-beam of his stauros.
On the Son of Mary, because like Peredur, He left His Mother to go for a soldier, for he would be a miles too.
On Mary because of her secret piercing, and because, but for her pliant fiat mihi, no womb-burden to joust with the fiend in the list of Hierosolyma, in his fragile habergeon: HUMANA NATURA.
On the Angel in skins because the soldiers asked him a question.
On the key-man, the sword-bearer, because he lied to a nosey girl and warmed his hands at a corporal's brazier.
On the chosen three because they slept at their posts.
On the God of the philosophers who is not in the fire, but who can yet make fire.
On Enoch's shining companion who walks by your side like an intimate confedrate, who chooses suddenly, so that the bearers look in vain for your body, who takes you alive to be his perpetual friend.
On Abraham's God who conditions his vows, who elects his own, who plucks out by tribe and sub-tribe and gens and family.
On the Dux Pacis
Unben Ariel Fryn
Urrol arbennig of Uru-height
sine genealogia, with neither beginning of time
nor end of days, assimilatus autem Filio Dei
MELCHISEDEC Wledig, he who
two millenia before the Abendmahl
foretokened that Oblation made on dies Iovis
noswyl dow Gwener
the day he was to suffer
pridie the Ides of Mars
about the time when bough begins to frond
and stella's aconite brights holt-edge
where men axe down the Dreaming lignum
against tomorrow's Immolation
in the first month
of the Romulean year Ab Urbe Condita
seven hundred and eighty-four.
By Levite intercalation
the Eve of the Preparation Day of
the Feast of Transit
a Dies Magna of obligation
for the gens Iudaica.
Feria V (in Cena Domini) of the Great Week.

Twenty centuries of waste land back
this summus sacredos and Rex Salem
had foreshewn, under the same signa
of Ceres fractured, of
Liber made confluent with
this, thy creature of water
yn y Caregl Rhagorol.

On all the devices of the peoples, on all anointed stones. On fertile goddesses, that covering arbours might spring up on that open plain for poor maimed men to make their couches there.
On her that wept for a wounded palm that she got by a mortal spear – that she might salve a gaping groin that the race might not be without generation.
On the unknown God.
Each calling according to what breasts had fed them – for rite follows matriarchate when y'r brain-pans stove in.

David Jones, from The Book of Balaam's Ass in The Sleeping Lord and Other Fragments (1974)