On one side, we see Doña Blanca on her deathbed in the center of the lower register, flanked by two angels who carry an eidolon between them, representing the bearing of Blanca's soul to heaven. This gesture is made literal as the angels raise the nude, child-like figure up towards the upper register (the gabled top), where Christ in Majesty resides with his twelve apostles. While an eidolon representing the soul of the deceased is not novel - a similar scene can be found on the contemporary sarcophagus of Doña Sancha (d. 1096) - the eidolon here, however, takes on a double meaning. A now lost epitaph once inscribed on her tomb read, "(...) Stricken down in childbirth, she brought forth a noble son, pledge of love; the Son born of the Virgin's womb assisted her (...)" (13). The eidolon, in this light, alludes also to Blanca's "noble son" - Valdez del Alamo supports this hypothesis by observing the unconventional treatment and posture of this eidolon in comparison with other sarcophagi, such as that of Doña Sancha (14). The lost epitaph also drives home another double meaning in the reference to "the Son": Just as Christ gave his life to give believers - His children, including Blanca - new life, Doña Blanca, as a mother, gave her life to give birth to a son, the future Alfonso VIII of Castile.

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Surrounding Blanca's deathbed are mourners, whose expressiveness and individuality in their acts of lamentation are qualities that make this sarcophagus one of a kind. To the left, a row of women gather around the dying queen: some bow their heads in silent grief and prayers, one seems to be waving both her hands about as if in a frenzy, or even tearing at her hair, one more may be weeping in earnest and needs the support of her companions. This last weeping woman's placement and posture find parallels in those of the king himself, who stands, as a mirror-image, to the right of Blanca's recumbent form, likewise supported by two companions. In fact, he seems to be in an even more intense grief than his parallel - his head lolls more to the side and his eyes are clearly closed, as if in a swoon; as Valdez del Alamo concludes, King Sancho III's mourning as represented here far exceeds the ritual lamentation that was expected of him (15). For all we know, the king's grief for his queen and partner looks and feels genuine, and if he indeed had a hand in the design of this sarcophagus (16), it would mean that he wanted to be commemorated in his act of commemorating his wife. While this may have been a very personal commission for Sancho III, politics still came into play. Sancho burying Doña Blanca in her ancestral Navarrese royal pantheon may seem like a natural and innocuous choice, but as king of Castile, burying his queen there also served to consolidate Castilian rule over the previously Navarrese-held territory (17).

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On the opposite sides, female-specific imagery taken from the biblical narrative prevails even more. On the upper register, we have the parable of the Ten Virgins, while on the low register, from left to right, we see the Adoration of the Magi (with the figures of Mary and the Christ child partly destroyed), the Judgment of Solomon with the good mother and the evil mother, and the scene of Massacre of the Innocents where bereaved mothers helplessly look on.

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Altogether, as Valdez del Alamo observes, the many figures depicted on this lid surround the death scene of Doña Blanca as visitors would the sarcophagus itself (18) - certain groups of figures, like the mourners on one side, the five Wise Virgins who are entering the door to the Bridegroom's house, and the Three Magi, even move in clear directions as one would in a funerary procession. In a way, the designer(s) of the sarcophagus lid ensured that Doña Blanca would be mourned and her life and legacy celebrated in perpetuity - by the carved lamenting figures around her, and by future visitors who would activate and mirror those figures.