God, in His wisdom and His justice, had decreed against him the most grievous and horrible of punishments; He had left him his consciousness; He had not crippled him in mind, but in body only.

And that motionless and rigid mass which, growing chill in death, lay there on the couch of purple trimmed with gold--that was the king--a king whom agony of conscience did not permit to die, and who now shuddered and was horrified in view of death, to which he had, with relentless cruelty, hunted so many of his subjects.
Catharine and the Archbishop of Canterbury, the noble Cranmer, stood at his bedside: and whilst in convulsive agony he grasped Catharine's hands, he listened to the devout prayers which Cranmer was saying over him.
Once he asked with mumbling tongue: "My lord, what kind of a world then is that where those who condemn others to die, are condemned to die themselves ?" And as the pious Cranmer, touched by the agonies and tortures of conscience which he read in the king's looks, and full of pity for the dying tyrant, sought to comfort him, and spoke to him of the mercy of God which has compassion on every sinner, the king groaned out: "No, no! No mercy for him who knew no mercy!" At length this awful struggle of death with life was ended; and death had vanquished life.

The king had closed his eyes to earth, to open them again there above, as a guilt-laden sinner in the presence of God.
For three days his death was kept a secret.

They wanted first to have everything arranged, and to fill up the void which his death must make.
They wanted, when they spoke to the people of the dead king, to show them also at the same time the living king.

And since they knew that the people would not weep for the dead, they were to rejoice for the living; since they would sing no funeral psalms, they were to let their hymns of joy resound.
On the third day the gates of Whitehall were thrown open, and a gloomy funeral train moved through the streets of London.