This Is Your Easter Playlist

Just not the one you think it is

It’s Easter this weekend, and this is usually the point where a lot of the same music comes back around. The big choral works, the familiar sacred pieces, the ones that feel tied to the calendar.

And some of those are here, because they belong here.

But what I kept coming back to while putting this together wasn’t just the occasion itself, it was the shape of it. The movement from something heavy into something else.

It’s hard not to feel that shift at this time of year as well. The days are longer, the light is different, things feel like they’re starting to move again after a fairly long pause.

So this playlist tried to follow this arc.

It starts in a place that feels tense, almost unsettled. Then it turns inward for a bit. Things begin to open, and by the end, it lands somewhere that feels lighter, more grounded, and a bit more alive.

That’s the journey I wanted. So this is my 2026 Easter playlist.

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‘Herr, unser Herrscher’ from John Passion - J. S. Bach

It would be almost impossible to put together an Easter playlist without Johann Sebastian Bach.

He wrote an enormous amount of music during his time in Leipzig, often working under pressure to produce something new every week. A lot of it is sacred, and a lot of it has that quality people often associate with Bach. Grounded, structured, reflective. Deep, but controlled.

Not usually what you’d call dramatic. But the St John Passion is different.

There was actually a bit of a workaround happening at the time. Churches weren’t particularly keen on overt theatricality during services. So composers leaned into the idea of the Oratorio. A large-scale work that tells a biblical story, but without staging or acting. Which meant you could bring in tension, character, and narrative, just through music. And Bach absolutely goes for it here.

The opening chorus is not gentle. The orchestra starts with this insistent, heavy, almost grinding texture. It’s chromatic, which means the notes are constantly shifting in small steps, creating tension rather than settling anywhere comfortable. Then the choir enters, repeating ‘Herr’ (Lord) again and again.

It doesn’t feel calm or reverent. It feels urgent. Pressing. Almost desperate. The lines climb, fall, jump. The harmonies don’t quite resolve. You can feel the strain in it.

It’s a striking way to begin. Not with comfort, but with weight.

This recording by Raphaël Pichon and Pygmalion is a recent release, just out last month, and it’s been getting a lot of attention. What stands out for me is the clarity. You can actually hear the individual lines moving within the texture, rather than it all blending into one block of sound. It makes the tension even more tangible.

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Piano Concerto No. 23, II. Adagio - W. A. Mozart

After that opening, the shift into Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart feels almost like stepping inward.

The Adagio from Piano Concerto No. 23 is one of those movements that people come back to again and again, and it’s not hard to hear why. It sits somewhere between simplicity and something much harder to pin down.

The piano opens alone with a very simple line. It’s not trying to impress you. It just exists, quietly. But there’s a sense of isolation in it straight away.

Then the orchestra comes in and the mood deepens rather than lifts. There’s a weight to the harmony that pulls it down slightly. If you focus away from the melody and listen to the pulse underneath, especially in the left hand of the piano, you get this steady ‘pam… pa-pam’ feeling. Almost like a slow heartbeat.

It does briefly open up. The woodwinds, especially the flute, bring in a moment of light and the music shifts into a major key. It feels like something might resolve.

But it doesn’t stay there. It slips back again, and that sense of solitude returns.

There’s something very operatic about the way the melody unfolds. Mozart wrote this around the same time as his opera The Marriage of Figaro, and you can almost hear a voice behind the piano line, as if it’s singing rather than being played.

This recording by Mitsuko Uchida really leans into that. It never feels overworked, just very direct, very human.

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O Nata Lux - Morten Lauridsen

From that inward space, we move into something that feels like light breaking through.

‘O Nata Lux’ translates to ‘O Light born of light’. And Morten Lauridsen does exactly that here.

If you’ve heard his O Magnum Mysterium before, you’ll recognise the sound world. It’s built on very rich, slow-moving harmonies that feel suspended rather than driven forward. Nothing is rushed. Everything just unfolds.

What’s striking is that it’s entirely vocal. No instruments at all. But it never feels like anything is missing. The voices create their own structure, supporting each other, blending in a way that feels incredibly stable.

There’s a real sense of calm in it, but not emptiness. More like everything has settled into place.

Even if you’re not particularly drawn to the text itself, it’s hard not to feel something here. There’s a completeness to it that just lands.

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Daphnis et Chloé, I. Lever du jour - Maurice Ravel

And then we get to the point where everything starts to open.

Maurice Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé wasn’t written for Easter, but it might as well have been for this moment in the journey. This is the sunrise.

It was originally a ballet, commissioned by Sergei Diaghilev for the Ballets Russes. The story itself is pastoral and slightly surreal. Two young lovers, Daphnis and Chloé, get caught up in pirates, rescue scenes, and divine intervention before everything resolves.

But what most people hear now is this section, ‘Lever du jour’ (daybreak), in the concert hall.

It starts almost imperceptibly. You don’t quite notice when it begins. Then slowly, layers build. The orchestra starts to glow. The harmony shifts, the textures expand, and before you know it, you’re in full daylight.

Ravel’s music is often described as impressionistic. He’s not telling you exactly what to see, he’s giving you colours and letting you fill in the rest. It’s like painting with sound.

I always think of something like Monet’s Water Lilies when I listen to this. Not because it’s identical, but because it works in the same way. You’re not looking at sharp outlines. You’re taking in atmosphere, light, movement.

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In paradisum from Requiem - Gabriel Fauré

If Ravel is sunrise, then this feels like stepping somewhere beyond it.

Gabriel Fauré’s Requiem is quite different from many others. It’s not trying to overwhelm you with fear or grandeur. There’s very little of the drama you might expect from a mass for the dead.

And ‘In paradisum’, which closes the work, is the clearest example of that.

The text speaks about angels leading the soul into paradise. But the music doesn’t try to depict that in a grand or theatrical way. Instead, it feels weightless.

The choir moves in very smooth, flowing lines. The harmonies don’t push or pull too hard in any direction. There’s no sense of struggle left in it. Even the accompaniment, often led by the organ, feels like it’s just gently supporting rather than driving.

What’s interesting is how understated it is. You might expect something more obviously ‘heavenly’. Bigger, brighter, more triumphant. But Fauré goes the other way. It’s calm. It’s soft.

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‘Kommt, eilet und laufet’ from Easter Oratorio - J. S. Bach

And then, finally, we come back to Bach.

After everything we’ve moved through, the opening of the Easter Oratorio feels almost like stepping back into the world, but with a completely different energy.

This is a celebration.

There are essentially three beats in a bar (like a waltz), but it moves quickly enough that you feel it almost as one. That gives it this sense of lift, of forward motion, of dance.

It’s also a slightly unusual piece. Like the St John Passion, it’s an Oratorio. But instead of telling the Passion story, it focuses on the events after the Resurrection. And Bach did something quite practical, and slightly cheeky, to create it.

The music actually started life as a secular piece, often referred to as the ‘Shepherd Cantata’. He then repurposed it. Changed the characters, adjusted the text, and reshaped it into a sacred work. Menalcas and Damoetas become the disciples Simon and John. Doris and Sylvia become the two Marys. Same music. New context.

And it works. Because what you’re left with is something that feels genuinely joyful. After all the tension, the reflection, the stillness, this is movement again. Energy, brightness, momentum. It brings everything back to life.

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That’s the playlist.

If you listen to it, start from the beginning and give it time. It’s not really about individual highlights this week, it’s about where it ends up.

And if you only take one thing from it, I’d be interested to know what stuck.

Have a good Easter weekend! x