Set above an alcove at the eastern end of the north wall, it is dated 1678, and whoever had it carved clearly intended to say more. The text breaks off at four words: "This tomb was erected." No name follows, no lineage, no dedication. Whatever was meant to be recorded has been lost, leaving only the opening of a sentence that was never finished in stone.

The church itself, a medieval structure, provides the context in which the slab sits. Wall monuments of this kind were common in seventeenth-century Ireland among families of means, typically combining a carved inscription, armorial bearings, and a formal record of the deceased. That this one appears unfinished raises quiet questions: whether the mason was interrupted, whether the patron died before the work was complete, or whether a second stone was planned and never placed. The date, 1678, falls in a period of considerable social and political disruption in Connacht, when the consequences of the Cromwellian land settlements were still reshaping who held property and who could afford to memorialise the dead. None of that explains the missing words, but it sets them in a world where such absences were not unusual.