The damage is regrettable, because what remains is quietly extraordinary: a surface dense with carved symbolism, executed in relief, that reads almost like a theological diagram. A full-length cross dominates the slab, its arms terminating in fleur-de-lys, its head encircled by a crown of thorns, and its shaft ending in a Calvary mount complete with a skull-and-crossbones, the traditional image of Golgotha. In the corners, a crescent moon and a sun face each other across the upper field, while heater-shaped shields, a form resembling the flat-bottomed triangular shields of medieval heraldry, occupy the lower corners. An IHS monogram, the abbreviated form of the name of Jesus common in post-Reformation Catholic devotional art, sits to one side of the cross arms, and what may be a winged cherub occupies the other.

The Latin inscription running around the border has eroded badly and no date is now legible on the stone itself, but a transcription made by FitzGerald in 1902 preserves both the text and a date of 1630. The inscription records that Edmund Sall had the tomb made during his own lifetime, for himself, his wife Katherine, and their children, describing it as a memorial to the frailty of life and closing with an exhortation to live in such a way as to reach eternal heaven. The heraldic shields are also documented by FitzGerald: one bears a bend dexter between two saltires with shamrock finials, and the other carries the registered arms of the Salle family of Cashel, incorporating a portcullis and stag's antlers. Initials beneath the shields, K.C. and K.S., likely refer to Katherine and the Sall family name. That the slab now lies exposed in the gravel rather than inside the cathedral, and that its inscription has worn past reading, gives the whole object a slightly melancholy quality that Edmund Sall, who went to such careful lengths to be remembered, probably did not intend.